


Gregory

by Radclyffe



Category: Sabrina (1995), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Crossover, M/M, Not Canon Compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-01
Updated: 2019-01-13
Packaged: 2019-09-05 01:08:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 35,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16800667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Radclyffe/pseuds/Radclyffe
Summary: Once upon a time, on the south coast of England, not far from London, there was a very very large mansion, almost a castle, where there lived a family by the name of Holmes. There were servants inside the mansion and servants outside the mansion; boatmen to tend the boats, and six crews of gardeners: two for the orangery, the rest for the grounds, and a tree surgeon on retainer. There were specialists for the indoor tennis courts, and the outdoor tennis courts, the outdoor swimming pool, and the indoor swimming pool. And over the garage there lived a chauffeur by the name of Lestrade, imported from France years ago, together with a limousine; and a son, named Gregory.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Sabrina, both the 1995 and the 1954 version was an old favourite of mine and a couple of years ago I attempted to write a Johnlock interpretation but it didn't get off the ground. I watched the 1995 version again recently and this is the result.  
> It is not compliant either to Sherlock canon or the film. As it is set in England (rather than America) I have had to change the details of where Gregory spends his time abroad, also he is away for longer as I wanted to give him a chance to grow up a little. All the main characters are younger than they are in the series, and apart from Gregory, they are younger than their counterparts in the film. Gregory is around twenty and Mycroft is in his early thirties. John is still an ex-army doctor but neither injured nor impoverished, Sherlock still manifests sociopathic tendencies but is no virgin. Mycroft is still the Iceman.

Once upon a time, on the south coast of England, not far from London, there was a very very large mansion, almost a castle, where there lived a family by the name of Holmes. There were servants inside the mansion and servants outside the mansion; boatmen to tend the boats, and six crews of gardeners: two for the orangery, the rest for the grounds, and a tree surgeon on retainer. There were specialists for the indoor tennis courts, and the outdoor tennis courts, the outdoor swimming pool, and the indoor swimming pool. And over the garage there lived a chauffeur by the name of Lestrade, imported from France years ago, together with a limousine; and a son, named Gregory.

The Holmes Family, or rather Mummy, were noted for the parties they gave. Few people anymore give parties the way she did. It never rained on the night of a Holmes party. The Holmes wouldn't have stood for it.

There was Maude, one of the finest mathematicians of her generation who gave up work when the children were born but still managed to regularly pre-empt the Bank of England and outthink the government think tanks. Mummy was on the cover of The Economist.

There was Mycroft, the older son... who graduated from Cambridge at nineteen... and took up a minor position in the British Government before shortly afterwards becoming the British Government. Mycroft, mostly obscured by the prime minister, was on the cover of Private Eye.

But most of all... there was Sherlock... the younger son... who was in and out of all kinds of trouble, both causing and investigating it, a high functioning sociopath, who had turned flirting into an art form when it was required to get his own way. He was difficult, brooding, endlessly fascinating and would do anything to avoid feeling bored. Sherlock had a blog.

******

Gregory Lestrade, the adored only child of devoted parents, feted by all the household staff, had a secure and happy childhood growing up on the Holmes estate, but that had changed dramatically when he was just thirteen years old. His mother had died suddenly, and his father, bereft, had struggled both to cope with his own grief and to comfort his son.

Gregory entering a painful combination of mourning and adolescence, had become one of those teenage boys at odds with their own body; small and skinny, with spots and braces and unfortunately hiding his beautiful deep brown eyes with unflattering glasses and his good features by wearing his hair long and unkempt so it fell in curtains across his face. His mother’s death had left him shy and withdrawn preferring to live in the world of his imagination; shortly afterwards he had become fixated on the younger of the two Holmes brothers, the eighteen year old Sherlock, just off to university, a fixation, to the concern of his father, that he showed no signs of growing out of.

Now at nearly nineteen he had finally reached a respectable height but was still scrawny and uninterested in his appearance, as if he would do anything to avoid drawing attention to himself. He had finished school and had decided against university instead he was to spend two years in Canada with relatives of his mother. Until then he was generally at a loose end, so Gregory spent hours in the tree next to the mews that conveniently overlooked the garden of the Holmes mansion, day dreaming his life away and hoping to catch a glimpse of Sherlock, swishing his coat or his dressing gown as he strode through the grounds in pursuit of one experiment or other.

This evening though Gregory was lurking with a purpose; his last night in England for two years had coincided with one of the Holmes’ spectacular parties. From his lookout in the tree he was in the position to monitor Sherlock’s every move, who he spoke to, who he deduced in that disarming fashion of his, who he danced with (he was a wonderful dancer) and who he went to the orangery with… there was always someone.

Tonight’s conquest was a tall elegant red head, who danced close with Sherlock and as they swayed in time to the music managed to wipe away the usually bored expression from his face. Sherlock bent his head a little and whispered something into his companion’s ear. They parted then, the tall redhead in the direction of the orangery, Sherlock to the champagne bar. Gregory continued watching, totally crushed.

“Greg? Gregory, come down” his father was calling him.

“He made Sherlock laugh”

“You have to finish packing; you’re leaving first thing tomorrow”

“Am I witty?” Gregory addressed the question to the top of his father’s head.

“I wonder if Montreal is far away enough” Greg’s father said, mostly to himself. If only Mars had been possible.

“No, really. Do you think I'm funny?”

Fond and exasperated Thomas Lestrade replied.

“Hilarious. You should do stand-up” And then on a more serious note, reflecting how worried he was about his son’s obsession. “Gregory Lestrade, the full-time observation of Sherlock Holmes is not a recognised profession. Get out of that tree”

“In a minute” Just a few minutes longer to gaze on Sherlock, to torture himself with what would never happen before they were parted for ever… well two years anyway.

Greg gave into his father’s wishes conveniently just as Sherlock was passing, only narrowly avoiding landing on him but still making the object of his affection jump.

“Oh! It’s just you Gavin”

Sherlock always got his name wrong but Greg didn’t mind, the other day he had called him Graham, but at least it meant Sherlock knew his name began with a G.

“Hello Sherlock” he stammered

“I thought I heard somebody” Sherlock said, straightening his tie and walking away.

“No, it was nobody” Greg addressed Sherlock’s back as he made his way to the orangery.

Gregory waited a few minutes and then followed the path Sherlock had taken to the orangery. The Georgian building was set a little apart from the terrace and lawn where the party was taking place though the music could still be heard quite clearly. The orangery was beautiful, with enormous windows, filled with lush vegetation, romantic lights and water features and comfortable couches dotted around. Peering through the nearest window Gregory could clearly see Sherlock, he was holding his companion from the dance floor in his arms as they moved slowly in time to the music. There was an open bottle of champagne and two glasses on the low wall behind them, next to the softest most tempting couch.

As Gregory watched Sherlock dipped his head and kissed his partner, deeply and the man responded eagerly, reaching up to run his fingers through those marvellous curls. Sherlock in turn ran his hands up and down the man’s back and the curve of his arse before manoeuvring him to the chaise lounge. As the man lay back, arms wide in invitation Gregory turned away and walked sadly back to his home, wracked with an almost physical pain as he felt his heart break one more time.

******

“Gregory?” He had hoped to creep back into the flat without his father noticing but luck was against him, Gregory stopped and leant against the door frame while his father talked to him.

“You've spent more of your life up that tree than you have on solid ground.

“You know how lucky we are that your cousins have sponsored you... so you can have this experience, and you can get to know your Canadian relatives? The time in Montreal will be so good for you. If your mother were alive, she'd be so happy. It's what she always wanted”

“What if he forgets all about me?”

“My dear boy” Thomas Lestrade said bluntly but not unkindly “How can he forget someone he doesn't know exists?” Then catching sight of his son’s stricken face “I didn't mean that. I just meant... there's much more to you than this obsession. I hope you know that”

But although he thanked his father and said good night, his words didn’t really register.

Gregory knew he really needed to finish his packing but firstly he needed something to sooth his wounded spirit. He sloped down to the kitchen of the main house, where the staff plus all the casual helpers where busy still preparing canapés and other treats for the Holmes’ guests. Unnoticed Gregory purloined a half bottle of brandy from the pantry and returned to his room.

He pulled out his half packed suitcase and began to throw a few more items into it but his heart wasn’t really in it. He knew it was an amazing opportunity to work abroad for a couple of years and he knew that he should be looking forward to it, but the thought of leaving Sherlock devastated him. He didn’t want to go.

Easily distracted and enticed by the music Gregory stopped what he was doing to look out of the window. It was the greatest joy to him that he had a clear view of Sherlock’s rooms from his bedroom. Gregory was startled to see that the light was on in Sherlock’s bedroom and he could see a man’s shadow behind the curtains. Sherlock must have got bored with his companion and abandoned him that had happened before.

Perhaps there was something in the air, the party and the music, that made Gregory bold and impetuous. Perhaps it was the large slug of brandy. He left the safety of the Mews flat and ran silently through the empty house to B wing and Sherlock’s suite.

******

Mycroft had had more than enough of his mother’s party. Despite teasing his mother with the idea, Mycroft had not had his face painted; however he had certainly pressed enough flesh and engaged in enough small talk to be considered to have done his filial duty. There was trouble brewing as ever on the Korean peninsula and it wouldn’t wait until morning to sort it out. He paid his respects to Mummy and made his way to Sherlock’s suite to drop off the cufflinks he had borrowed earlier before heading back to town. He was just pausing in Sherlock’s dressing room to check his younger brother’s sock index for controlled substances (one could never be too careful) when he heard a tentative knock on the outer door.

“Come in”

“I came to say good-bye”

“What?”

“Don’t come out. If I look at you, I might not be able to get through this. Please don't say anything.”

Mycroft smiled to himself, it was Lestrade’s boy. _Still harbouring a crush on the oblivious Sherlock then._

“I'm leaving tomorrow for Canada... and I'll be away a long time. I don't expect you to think about me while I'm gone. You haven't thought about me while I was here. I just want to say... I think I know you better than anybody else. I mean, whatever they think or say, I know the truth... you're not a sociopath…you’re a wonderful person… kind and generous and… and, for what it's worth, know that someone... very far away is thinking of you. So, if there's anything I can ever do…”

Mycroft had a sudden twinge of conscience. This confession wasn’t really for his ears. He emerged from the dressing room and revealed himself to Gregory.

“Could you bring me a bottle of maple syrup?”

Gregory, mortified and blushing scarlet, turned on his heels and fled, leaving the wryly amused Mycroft chuckling. _Caring – such a disadvantage!_


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> what happens while Gregory is away

**September**

Canada was officially a disaster.

Although he had been reluctant to move away from Sherlock, Gregory knew he had to make the most of the chance to discover a new country and a new culture, to widen his horizons and learn more about the world. His cousins Mike and Sally friendly and interesting, welcoming him with open arms and making him feel at home.

Mike, worked as a federal investigator with the RCMP, and had secured Gregory clearance to work as an administrator in his team. After overcoming his disappointment that Mike worked on financial and cybercrime rather than getting his hands dirty with more mainstream police work and after being comprehensively embarrassed for thinking Mike rode a horse in the course of his duties Greg started to look forward to getting involved.

Mike had met his wife Sally when she was a forensic photographer working on crime investigations throughout Quebec. She still worked for the police occasionally even though she was now freelance, and did fashion and landscape assignments along with teaching part time at Concordia. Sally had been hugely encouraging when Gregory had shown her examples of his own attempts and horrified that he was using his phone camera. She had promptly taken him to a second hand camera shop and fitted him out with an eight year old Nikon which she claimed was as good as anything she owned.

Gregory hadn’t been sure what he was expecting from Canada although he had spent time on the internet researching his visit. He’d gained the impression it was not unlike England with a bit of old France thrown in. He’d been brought up bilingual and thought he spoke French fluently, certainly well enough to get an A* in his A level. But the French he heard seemed to owe more to Moliere than Le Monde and it was often a struggle to understand and be understood.

The other officers in Mike’s division were friendly enough and seemed prepared to take Gregory under their wing. There was a fair amount of good natured ribbing of his Englishness and they found every about him amusing but nothing that Greg couldn’t handle. Until he upset Philippe that is.

Greg was in the staff room, minding his own business and waiting for Mike to come back from an assignment when Eric, one of the younger officers , whose wife had just had a baby, came in and started to show everyone the photos on his phone for them to admire.

In a lull in the conversation, Greg turned to the man next to him and asked about his family.

“Avez-vous des gosses?”

The man (Philippe) exploded into a torrent of angry French, Gregory didn’t catch it all but what he did was shocking and abusive, while the other officers around him smirked and slapped him on the back. Greg was baffled.

“What…what was wrong? Qu'est-ce qui ne va pas? 

But no-one would say, they just laughed and punched his arm while Philippe berated him in a slang Greg didn’t recognise.

After that Philippe took pains to make Greg’s life as difficult as possible (while Mike was not around) and Gregory grew more miserable and homesick.

**October**

Gregory felt a wimp, but he swallowed his pride and phoned his father for permission to come home. He’d tried to time his call to catch his father before the staff communal breakfast but didn’t quite succeed, but at least his dad was pleased to hear his voice.

“It must be two in the morning?”

“I stayed up especially so I could call you” Gregory told him, before sharing his tale of woe and every mistake he’d made since landing at the airport.

“But you've only been there a month. I doubt every single person in Montreal thinks you're an idiot”

“Only because I haven't met them all”

“Gregory, you're being much too hard on yourself. Give it a chance. Now what matters is you're away from here experiencing new things... getting another view of the world, finding new friends. And not constantly thinking about you know who!”

Mr Lestrade was firm, encouraging his son to try a little longer, however hard his advice was for both of them, but he couldn’t keep the worry from his face when he walked into the kitchen.

“Morning, Tom” Lestrade was greeted by the Holmes’ housekeeper, Martha. They were old friends as well as work colleagues. All the staff had witnessed Lestrade take the call and were eager for news of Gregory.

“He's fine... he hasn’t adjusted completely”

Martha could read between the lines “He's miserable. I knew it”

“We told you not to let him go” Jeff backed her up.

Janine, the Irish housemaid added her ten bob’s worth. “Mr Tom, when I first came to this country, I was alone... like Gregory. I just weighed more. So, I asked the good Lord, Why I am here?' I say, Why, God? But there was no answer. So I stopped crying. It took eleven years!”

“Thank you, Janine, I appreciate your concern but you came from Dublin on the Holyhead Ferry and most of your relatives live less than forty miles away, it’s not quite the same”

“Did he mention Sherlock?”

“Oh just that life without him is a ‘hopeless abyss of misery and despair’' I believe those were his words. Nothing new”

**June**

Mycroft, having spent the night at the Holmes mansion was waiting by the car for his mother, about to give her a lift into the city when his younger brother walked towards him wrapped only in a sheet.

“Mycroft! Got a minute?”

Once again Mycroft felt an overwhelming sense of frustration with his younger sibling and the way he lived his life.

“Sherlock, does it ever occur to you that you are a graduate chemist with a Mensa level IQ and that you could be doing something useful with your life?”

Sherlock waved the comment away with his hand. “I met someone”

“Do you recall my offer to find a place for you in The Service?”

Sherlock was not to be deflected. “Mycroft, I met _SOMEONE_ ”

Nor was Mycroft “In fact I have something on at the moment where your assistance would be appreciated”

“This is really somebody”

Mycroft sighed audibly and gave up, on this occasion, trying to coerce his brother.

“So what's it to do with me?”

“I've invited him for dinner here Friday” Sherlock stammered a little and blamed Mycroft for it “and I don't want you and Mummy to, you know… This guy is smart. He’s really smart”

“Well that not a word I would normally use about your associates”

“Listen, Mycroft, He’s a real man. He’s not a, you know…”

“An android?”

“He’s not an airhead. He’s an ex-army doctor, served in Afghanistan”

“Really, and how did you meet this paragon?”

“I was beating a corpse; the mortuary officer on duty brought him in. We just hit it off, figuratively”

“You were beating a corpse? No, don’t answer; I really don’t want to know”

“When you guys meet him, just try to make me look good. I know I look good, but try to make me sound good. Mention my accomplishments... My successful cases. You can be creative. Lie, okay?”

Mycroft didn’t honour this request with a reply, so Sherlock played his trump card.

“Oh and he says his dad knows you”

As Sherlock had intended this comment did merit a response, despite Mycroft’s exalted position in government, very people actually knew him.

“What's his name?”

“John Watson”

Mycroft’s interest was immediately engaged, it was a common enough name but there was only one Watson in his line of work.

“Watson Electronics Watson?”

“Watson I don't know Watson”

Their conversation was interrupted by the arrival of Mummy; she kissed Mycroft and sighed loudly at the sight of her younger son.

“William Sherlock Scott Holmes, you spend nine tenths of your allowance on clothes, you have a wardrobe full of bespoke suits and designer shirts, why are you insisting on dressing like Ghandi?”

Sherlock shrugged “You’re both up early for a Sunday. Don’t tell me you’re going to church”

“It's Wednesday, Sherlock, some of us have work to do. And put your trousers on!”

Mycroft waited until the car had pulled away before reaching for his mobile.

“Anthea. I want the most up to date gen on Patrick Watson, what he’s supposedly working on, who he’s been seen with, what the Russians are saying, not so much that anybody would notice, and anything you’ve got on his family too”

Turning to his Mother he said “Sherlock is taking out Patrick Watson’s son. You remember Patrick?”

Mummy, who despite having officially retired from active service on the birth of her first child still had a finger on the national pulse, “I do, and I sincerely hope his son is nothing like him”

**August**

Sally and Greg were drinking coffee in an espresso bar on the Plateau waiting for Mike to join them. Sally was gently teasing her cousin about Louis, one of her photography students who seemed quite taken with Gregory and had asked him out for a drink. Sally was trying to persuade him to go.

“Gregory, you have been here nearly a year now, you’ve worked hard, studied hard, you’ve done all the things that the tourists do, and some they never learn about. But what have you done for yourself?”

“What do you mean?”

“You’ve climbed mountains, skied and snow boarded and swum in the sea and taken all kinds of risks but this one”

Greg couldn’t meet her gaze.

“I like Louis… he's handsome and funny and such a good photographer”

“But someone is in the way”

Blushing scarlet, Greg stared at his shoes and prayed Mike would arrive and rescue him. His prayers went unanswered.

“Is it this Sherlock you mentioned casually... forty or fifty times a day when you first came over?”

Still unable to speak Greg nodded.

“He sounds, perhaps, like an illusion”

“He keeps me company”

“You think so? Illusions are dangerous people. They have no flaws… Gregory, when I first came to live here, I was desperately lonely, I moped around the city feeling short-changed, what was the point in moving to Montreal to find myself when nothing was happening to me, and then I realised I couldn’t find myself if I didn’t go looking. So I stopped moping around art galleries and coffee shops and I started living. And then I met Michel, who is short-sighted and slightly overweight and the love of my life.

“Go for a drink with Louis, you don’t have to marry him, it's only a place to start”

**December**

Sherlock was skulking around the smoking area when John found him, twelve hours after they were supposed to have met up. Sherlock had scrounged a cigarette of a patient with an IV drip on wheels and a gammy leg. The cigarette had improved his temperament but meant he couldn’t kiss John which was unacceptable. Fortunately, John had just finished a double shift and felt and smelt like a navvy’s armpit and wasn’t in kissing condition.

“I'm sorry about your case”

“It’s okay” It wasn’t but Sherlock couldn’t bring himself to say so… not to John. “Hungry?”

Starving”

“I know a good Chinese… stays open ’til two. You can always tell a good Chinese by examining the bottom third of the door handle”

“I’m sorry… I don’t think I’m up to a restaurant”

“Tell you what I'll do, we’ll go back to Baker Street, I'll run you a hot bath, and get the Chinese to deliver”

“Sherlock that would be amazing”

“You mean, making a hot bath and ordering in a takeaway are roughly on par with saving the life of a five-year-old child?”

“It'll save my life”

“God, you're easy on me”

“Ok. Then why don't you marry me?”

Sherlock blinked continuously for several seconds without saying a word. John feeling despondent was getting ready to move away when Sherlock finally spoke “Ok, why don't I?”

“Don't joke about stuff like that, Sherlock”

“Okay... why don't I?”

“Do you even know what it is?”

Sherlock’s eyes flickered; John could see he was consulting his mind palace.

“It’s that thing where you share a sock index... and sleep in the same room... and tie each other's bow ties…”

“Then I accept”

“Really?” Sherlock blinked again “Why?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> note on the French, Greg thinks he is asking Philippe if he has kids, it means something slightly different in Canada.


	3. Chapter 3

**February**

“Gregory I need you”

Sally had an assignment, a fashion shoot for an up and coming menswear designer. It was a low key event but the clothes were fabulous and would put both the designer and Sally on the map… except for one thing.

“Bloody Christophe as gone off to Vancouver to audition for a soap. I can’t do this with only two models, you’ll have to scrub up”

“What? No, can’t you send for someone else”

“Gregory, we’re two hours from anywhere, even if I got hold of someone, they wouldn’t be here in time”

“But I can’t… don’t make me”

“Of course you can. All you have to do is stand where I say and look pretty”

Gregory was torn, Sally was a mate but look pretty?

“You’ll be fine; they’ll only be looking at the clothes”

He wasn’t convinced, when he looked at models in magazines he certainly looked at a lot more than the clothes. But Sally was pleading and friendship won over fear. Slowly he nodded.

“Brilliant, go over to make-up… Helene” Sally called over to the location mobile studio “Can you do anything with his hair?”

Success, Sally thought, she’d been working on a plan to turn her ugly duckling into a swan for months. Now to persuade him into contact lenses.

**March**

Sherlock swept into the outer office of Mycroft’s suite at the Diogenes Club, coat flying and a face like thunder.

“Mr Holmes? Sherlock” Anthea asked politely while attempting to bar his way “What a nice surprise”

“Where is he?”

“He's in a meeting. He's at lunch… er… you can’t go in there”

Too late, Sherlock was through the double doors and into the inner sanctum, where his brother was in conference with a stately looking woman in her fifties and a suit about the same age. Sherlock cut straight to the chase.

“I need to talk to you”

“I'm in a meeting”

“Obviously… get rid of them”

Mycroft sighed and turned to Lady Smallwood and Sir Edwin. “Apologies, it seems we need to make a brief adjournment”

After they had left, Sherlock slammed the paper he was holding down on Mycroft’s desk.

“I wondered why I was suddenly being treated with so much respect”

“Something bothering you, Sherlock?”

“According to this letter you are about to sign a deal with Watson for the British Intelligence Service’s exclusive access to his latest technological development. Some kind of surveillance drone?”

“That’s classified…and in code… how did you get hold of it?”

“You left it on the scanner at Mummy’s, school boy error, you could get the sack”

“You don’t have clearance for this information”

“We live in the same house! According to this Patrick’s prepared to work with you because ‘you’re practically family’”

“I can neither confirm nor deny that statement”

“I assume you’re not referring to us being family!” Sherlock was looming over his brother who was still seated. “You’ve been pushing me into this relationship... so you’d secure the expertise of the famously slippery Patrick Watson”

“Pushing you? I could burn in hell for the lies I told about you”

“You kidnapped John and offered him money to spy on me!”

“You begged me to make you look good in front of John, how else was I supposed to do it? It piqued his interest, didn’t it?”

“You never said a word about making an offer to Patrick”

“Talk about my accomplishments, you said. My qualities. Be creative. Lie, you said”

Sherlock suddenly slumped into a chair, all the bluster gone out of him “I can't do this, Mycroft… I'm not ready to make this kind of commitment”

“Oh, I see. John must have asked you to go public, set a date”

“I don't know what came over me. He was healing children. I’d just caught a serial killer. I'm not in any position to take care of a husband”

“John is a doctor and the only son of a millionaire, Sherlock. He won't be a burden. You don't deserve him, but he appears to love you”

“Doesn't that worry you a little bit? I mean, about his mental health”

“I am fully acquainted of Dr Watson’s therapist’s opinion, he had some symptoms of PTSD on his return from Afghanistan but he seems to have made a miraculous recovery since meeting you. There is no cause for alarm”

“Oh for Heaven’s sake, that wasn’t meant to be a serious question, Mycroft”

“Well isn’t about time you were serious? What do you expect me to do? Disqualify the country from a ground breaking deal that will advance the security systems of our service by fifteen years... because I might have a conflict of interest?”

Mycroft pulled open his desk drawer and Sherlock caught a brief glimpse of a gun, but it was something much smaller he took out.

“Look at this thing” Mycroft held out his hand, there appeared a tiny object about the size of a pea. “Patrick Watson has a surveillance implant half the size of this, almost undetectable, and you know what? The reception and recording ability is superb, better than anything the Russians and Chinese can come up with. Patrick handed the running of his company over to his daughter Harry a few years ago, he's semi-retired. He doesn’t make these for profit, just his own amusement, so they can’t be bought. He's sitting on the hottest technology in town... and everyone in the world knows it and no-one can get their hands on it.

“Patrick Watson’s always been a lone wolf, never owed his allegiance to any country or ideology, his father was Scottish his mother from Latvia or Estonia, somewhere like that. You never knew where you were with Patrick, never knew where his loyalty lay but now his only son, practically his only child is engaged to my brother, and Patrick is picking a side”

“This is my life you’re bargaining with”

“And I make your life possible”

“I resent that”

“So do I. Take a good look at yourself, Sherlock. You’re a graduate chemist but apart from analysing two hundred types of cigarette ash what have you done with it…?”

“Two hundred and forty-three”

“Don’t interrupt me. You studied languages that you never speak except to flirt... the violin you only play to annoy. You have boyfriends you never see more than twice. Do you see a pattern here?”

“Who are you to lecture me about closeness? Your idea of a long-term relationship is giving your date a chance to order dessert”

“I don't have time for dessert. I'm too busy running the country”

“Too many carbs more like”

“You're a grown man, Sherlock. Finish something. John Watson's the best thing that ever happened to you... you told me so yourself”

**April**

John’s father was on his feet. Drink had been taken and everyone was in a loquacious mood, even Mycroft.

“I would like to propose a toast. To my only son... Dr John Watson, war hero and talented MD. And to my future son-in-law, Sherlock Holmes, lucky SOB. Just pulling your leg, Sherlock… Not only is this the joining forever of two gorgeous people... but also…well, if I told you I’d have to kill you”

“Hear, hear”

“Mycroft!” Mummy admonished.

Patrick continued “I want to wish you all the luck and happiness you deserve. And... May your first child be a masculine child”

Sherlock, who had taken a large slug of his wine in advance of the toast spluttered and coughed. “What!”

“We’re getting you a surrogate as a wedding present” Ingrid Watson said.

“Mother!”

“Only joking” she patted Sherlock who was sat next to her, on the back.

“Though of course if you were wanting to start a family…” Patrick was on a roll with this one.

“Still joking” Ingrid confirmed.

Sat on his other side John whispered in Sherlock’s ear “Whenever they try to be funny, it comes out perverse... or terrifying”

“I see”

“You'll get used to it”

Sherlock very much doubted it.

**May**

Tom Lestrade was at the breakfast table, reading out Gregory’s latest email. A notorious technophobe he hadn’t got the hang of forwarding messages and always ended up printing them out to read aloud. The staff didn’t mind.

“...to be sure to tell you that he misses you... and sends all of you his love”

“But what does he say about the engagement?” Martha wanted to know, the answer was in Tom’s face. “Oh I don’t believe it, you didn't tell him”

“Tom” Lucy, the gardener admonished “you have to tell him, before he reads it in ‘Hello’”

“I don’t think Gregory reads ‘Hello’”

“Tom, that’s not the point, we all know he googles ‘Sherlock Holmes’ fifty times a day, or at least he always did. He’s going to find out one way or another, it’s best to come from you”

“I don’t know what to say, it will break his heart”

“Perhaps you could Skype?” Jeff suggested.

The look of terror on the chauffeur’s face indicated this was an innovation too far.

“I don’t think I could bear it if he cried”

Janine wasn’t to be left out “You say, Darling Gregory… Your life is a dream, and now it is over. I know how it feels, because no-one does disappointment like we Irish”

Mr Lestrade finished his breakfast and went back to his flat above the garage. He cranked up his ancient computer and with heavy heart sat down to compose an email.

_My dearest Gregory, although I am sure this will come as a shock... it is my belief that what I am about to tell you... is all for the best. I know how strongly you have always felt about this... and so I have been reluctant to write._

**June**

Sally was sitting on the stoop, enjoying a late night glass of wine when Gregory arrived home. She took in the messed up hair, the slight stubble burn and haphazardly buttoned shirt and asked with a suggestive smile. “Good Evening?” just for the pleasure of seeing Greg blush.

She beckoned Gregory to sit down while she fetched another glass from the kitchen and then poured him a drink.

“Going well with Louis”

Greg nodded and blushed again.

“But not enough to tempt you to stay in Canada?”

Greg shook his head.

“You know he’d like you to, we would too”

“I do like Louis, he’s fit and clever and fun to be with”

“And good in bed?”

“He taught me everything I know” Greg slapped his hand over his mouth as Sally shrieked with laughter.

“Too much information”

“I don’t believe I said that”

“And that’s not enough?”

Greg shook his head again.

“Isn’t there more for you here now, than there?” Sally knew all about the engagement, and had provided a shoulder to cry on when the news broke.

“I need to go home, at least for a while, even if… even if there is no hope of Sherlock… my father is there and I miss him”

“And then?”

“I always thought I’d be a police officer, join the Met, but England doesn’t sound so appealing these days, with Sherlock married and Brexit. Maybe I’ll go to Paris and be a gendarme”

**July**

_Dear Dad,_

_This is my last email from Montreal. I’m heading off to the airport after this. Don't worry about picking me up, I’ll get the bus. I'd like to surprise you. This has been the most amazing adventure, but now it is time to come home. All my love, Gregory_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> all references to new technology are dubious fictional creations.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gregory returns from Canada and takes everyone by surprise.

“Afternoon Sherlock”

“Mycroft”

“To what do we owe this pleasure?”

“John’s away, nothing on, have to be here for Mummy’s birthday party, thought I’d come early and get some country air”

“I suspect that’s only half the story but it will do for now”

“What have you got Mummy?”

“24 carat gold iPhone”

“You know she’ll only keep it in a drawer with the others”

“I know, but it’s the thought that counts. It's all right for you. She's so glad you finally set a date you'll never have to buy another present”

“That's not what she says. I got her a little Picasso. I’m having it reframed in town, I’m just off to collect it”

“What did that cost me?”

“I have no idea...So who’s cosying up to Patrick, the Russians or the Chinese?”

“And one or two of the other usual suspects”.

“Anything I should know, they’re not about to kidnap John and use him as a bargaining chip…or is that just you?”

“Rest assured, John is quite safe, for the time being at least”

“Why does that not reassure me in the…”

The rest of the comment was lost in the commotion as a small bull terrier, barking furiously flew past them followed by Janine, swearing like a trooper.

“Gladstone! Come back here yer little f…! Oh begging your pardon Sirs”

“What was that?”

“A dog”

“Don’t state the obvious Sherlock, What’s it doing here?”

“It's John's gift to Mother. He feels guilty about missing the party”

“Where is he?”

“He's stuck at some CME conference in Dublin...or Madrid, or possibly Wellington. I must go or I won’t get there before the shop closes. I want you to know something, Mycroft. I'm glad about John”

“You should be. He's terrific. He's suave, intelligent, good looking”

“Then why don't you marry him?”

“Don’t try to be smart, Sherlock”

“Now where have I heard that before? See you later”

“Not if I see you first” Mycroft replied as a matter of course.

******

Gregory caught the Express from Heathrow to Brighton. He’d been away for the best part of two years and he was relishing being surrounded by the familiarity of the English seaside town, while taking in everything that had changed. It was not only England that had altered while he’d been away. Gregory had grown a little during the two years, or maybe he was just standing taller. He’d filled out too, was muscular and no longer a boy. After the first assignment Sally had used Gregory as a model several times and he had often been paid with items from the designers she worked with. Today he was dressed in smart jeans, a denim shirt and a leather jacket what would have cost £2000 if he’d had to pay the retail price for it. After his initial chop by the location hairdresser he wore his hair shorter now as a matter of course revealing his good features and deep brown eyes that were no longer masked by thick spectacles. He looked a million dollars.

Waiting for the bus to take him the final leg of the journey he noticed a bright red Aston Martin with the roof down parked in the bus stop, and sporting a parking ticket for its trouble. It looked familiar, but it couldn’t be. Could it? That would be too marvellous a coincidence.

But miracles do sometimes happen, there was Sherlock running across the road, dodging the traffic with a flat rectangular parcel tucked his arm and as irresistible as ever. Before Gregory could engage his brain, he was calling out.

“Hi. How are you?”

Sherlock stopped abruptly, squinted and went into thinking mode. The question had come from a fit looking young man standing by a small pile of luggage. Sherlock took in the sight of the arse in tight jeans, the broad shoulders, the designer jacket and the lunch and decided whoever it was; they were definitely worth a reply.

“I'm ok. How are you?”

“Great. I'm just surprised to see you here”

Sherlock cogitated his mind palace but the first reconnaissance brought up no matches. Perhaps if he could investigate further.

“Well, you know me... Don't you?” Sherlock’s eyes flickered as he did another sweep of his memory bank – still nothing. Then he had an idea, one that would give him a chance to deduce “Can I give you a lift?”

Gregory’s face lit up “Are you on your way home?”

Fifty-fifty not brilliant odds, Sherlock went for Yes, which apparently was the right answer.

Once Gregory, his suitcase, rucksack and camera bag were safely stowed in the car Sherlock set of on the drive home. The route was so familiar he was more or less able to drive on autopilot which left him plenty of space to absorb nuggets of information about his passenger. _Age, twenty-one or thereabouts… good English though possibly not first language… mild North American inflection… expensive clothes, designer but not British label, not well known either. Slight Gallic look, eyes and general colouring, but nothing much else. Suitcase old and a cheap make likewise rucksack, wasn’t able to see the camera but suspected it would be a good but older model. Time to try to elicit some more concrete information to base his deductions on._

“You know, I can't remember the name of your street”

“Dusoris Lane”

“What?” Sherlock was wrong-footed “That's where I live”

“Small world”

“Big lane” Sherlock ran through his mind palace again, while keeping his eyes on the road, _scion of one of the half a dozen wealthy families that inhabited Dusoris Lane, back from a gap year, or university abroad, or possibly just a weekend away, these trust fund babies tended to be high maintenance_. Not interesting after all… apart from the obvious.

“You haven’t deduced who I am, have you?”

“Yes. Of course I have. You're my neighbour... on Dusoris Lane”

“And you're Sherlock”

“I am… One of the lesser Holmes”

“Oh, in what way lesser?”

“More or less every way, if you listen to my brother. But I could have sworn I knew every handsome guy on the south coast”

“Oh I could have sworn you took in more territory than that” Gregory could believe it, he was flirting, actually flirting with Sherlock Holmes, and Sherlock was flirting back!

“Ouch” Sherlock wasn’t used to being teased, he scowled.

Gregory noted the change in expression and felt deflated. “Although that was a while ago. I heard somewhere that you're engaged to be married”

“Yes, I am, but we're both... very busy, busy people... and it's been very difficult to set a date” Sherlock wasn’t prepared to give up so easily. “Give me one clue”

“Oh, no. This is too much fun”

Sherlock feared he’d be reduced to begging soon, while Gregory sat back and took in the familiar landscape. Home.

“Look, there’s the drive”

“I about to say that… er… would you like to come in for a drink?”

“What a good idea” as the car purred up the drive to the Holmes mansion they passed a flurry of activity with deliveries and caterers and down by the terrace, electricians were laying down the cables for the orchestra “Wow. Looks like you're having a party”

“It’s tomorrow night”

“The parties here were wonderful”

“Then you've been to them?” Sherlock didn’t think the answer would be in the affirmative, he was pretty certain he would have spotted this Adonis even in the crush of a Holmes party.

Gregory shook his head “No, but I saw the lights from a distance. What's the occasion? It's rather late for the engagement party”

“As a matter of fact, my fiancé is in Dublin this week… I think”

“You’re not sure?” Gregory found Sherlock’s confusion highly amusing and rather endearing.

“Like I said we’re very busy people, we don’t get to see much of each other”

“Not an engagement party, it is July… so it must be a birthday party for Mrs Holmes”

“I won’t ask how you know that. Look the party starts at nine. Will you come?”

Sherlock had parked the car and was looking intently at Gregory who felt suddenly breathless.

“Do you really want me to?”

“Very much. If you'll tell me who you are”

At that moment the elder Holmes brother came round the corner of the house and greeted Gregory by name.

Gregory immediately reverted to the self-conscious boy he had been before he left two years earlier “Oh, hello, Mr Holmes”

Sherlock was dumbfounded “Gregory?”

Oblivious Mycroft carried on “Have a good time in Montreal?”

“Yes. Thank you”

“You look all grown up”

Sherlock was still getting up to speed. He appeared have deleted all trace of the chauffer’s son and was having to do an emergency back-up and restore. “Gregory?”

Mycroft looked at Gregory “Why does he keep saying that?”

“I need to go find my father. I'll get my bags later”

Sherlock had finally finished rebooting and come back online “Wait a minute”

“Thanks for the lift” Gregory called over his shoulder as he hurried away.

Mycroft stared down his brother and uttered two words “Sherlock, no!”

“What are you talking about?”

“No.”

******

Finding that his father had taken Mrs Holmes shopping Gregory popped into the housekeeper’s room to give Mrs Hudson her present. “I’ve bought you a dream catcher, Martha. A genuine First Nation dream catcher, so all your dreams will be happy ones”

“Has he seen you?” Martha asked.

Gregory couldn’t contain his excited Yes! But then stammered “No. Who?”

“Your father” Martha let out a sad sigh as Gregory, hearing the car return, ran out to greet his father. Two years away and it seemed that flame burned as brightly as ever.

******

Tom Lestrade was delighted to have his son back under his roof again. Although they had emailed regularly and spoken on the phone, and he had visited Canada for two weeks last summer it was not the same as having the boy home. Or man he should probably say, he hardly recognised his son, so confident, handsome and mature.

Gregory’s half unpacked suitcase had spread its contents all over their sitting room floor as he rummaged for the presents he’d brought home for his father. There were woolly gloves and a scarf for going out, books and cheese for staying in, and a Mountie hat for laughs.

“Better than Christmas” Mr Lestrade was distracted by a portfolio of photographs “Who took these?”

“I did” Gregory was proud of his work but right then he had more important things on his mind. Retrieving his dress suit and shirt from his case “I hope this hangs out before tomorrow night”

Mr Lestrade looked up from the photographs “Tomorrow night” he said carefully “is Mrs Holmes's birthday party”

“I know. I've been invited”

“By whom?”

“By Sherlock” Gregory’s shoulders drooped a little “Of course, he didn't know it was me when he invited me”

“Now that he knows?”

“I guess, I'm still invited” Gregory stood up, with the suit over his arm “Maybe Mrs Hudson will help me press it” He walked to the door before turning to his father and saying “Dad, please? I promised myself years ago... all of those years, hundreds of times... thousands of times... if I ever got the chance and now I have”.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's no equivalent to Dusoris Lane in or around Brighton so I left the name unchanged.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gregory goes to the ball.

The party was in full swing; Gregory hadn’t intended to arrive ‘fashionably late’ after all he had no distance to travel, but his body clock was still adjusting to the time zone and after staying up late talking to his father, lying awake half the night thinking about his encounter with Sherlock and then falling asleep in the afternoon. He’d ended up having to rush, putting too much product in his hair and then having to change his shirt so it was an adrenaline fuelled and uncomfortable Gregory who teetered at the entrance of the archway that lead to the party.

Except there was Sherlock, smiling, handsome and weaving his way through the crowd towards him.

“Hello”

“You're here”

“Yes, I am”

“You look delicious”

Gregory blushed furiously and stammered “So do you… Look good”

Sherlock, instantly deducing the nervousness grabbed a glass of champagne from a passing waiter and thrust it into Gregory’s hand “Here. Drink this as quickly as possible... and it won't seem so strange to you, I just need to have a word with the conductor”

As Sherlock disappeared Janine appeared at Gregory’s side holding a plate of canapés.

“£750 a kilo... They'll be gone in five minutes... Take two…. You are an absolute prince”

Suddenly the band struck up an instrumental, Sherlock broke off from talking to a couple who had waylaid him to point at Gregory and mouthed “For you”

Gregory, recognising the tune grabbed another glass of champagne and downed it in one.

It was _‘Mad about the Boy’_

******

Mummy was holding court on the veranda; receiving good wishes from people she’d known for half a century and from people she hardly knew at all, when the Watsons arrived, now by dint of Sherlock’s engagement admitted to her inner circle.

“Fabulous party, Maude” Ingrid gushed “I'm so sorry John can't be here”

“So am I… He gave me a dog” The jury was still out on John’s choice of gift.

Mummy tactfully moved on to what she thought might be a safer topic for conversation. The upcoming wedding.

“Has John decided on the colour scheme?”

“We're still doing the guest list. Six hundred so far. That's just on our side”

“That's not a wedding, it's a town” Patrick view was clear from his voice.

“Quiet Patrick. It's going to be wonderful. Elegant but simple. Lavish but tasteful…”

“Cheap but expensive…”

Ingrid looking out over the dance floor had spotted Sherlock who had returned to Gregory. They were walking side by side and they appeared to be holding hands “Who's that?”

“Who?”

“That boy. The one with Sherlock”

Mummy, immediately concerned, looked in the direction Ingrid was pointing with a sinking feeling; she should have considered the possibility that with John away Sherlock might revert to form.

“Oh, well, that's… that's just…” Maude squinted, looking remarkably like her younger son when she did so. “Goodness. That's Lestrade’s boy Gregory... it’s nothing, Sherlock’s known him since he was two years old”

“He didn't fill a suit like that when he was two years old” Ingrid replied giving Maude what was usually described as an old fashioned look.

Meanwhile, in the staff kitchen, Janine had stopped by for a cigarette and to report the gossip to Tom and Martha “You should ever see Gregory. He's drinking champagne and eating seafood, so he is... and his hair is washed and his eyes are shining... and his teeth are white, and Sherlock got the band to play a song just for him”

Tom Lestrade was far from happy with events “I don't like it” and Mrs Hudson, also worried reached over and patted his knee sympathetically.

******

Mummy, in her own way was as Machiavellian as her elder son just more gracious with it. She easily contrived to bump into Sherlock and his dance partner.

“Well, Gregory…When did you get back?”

“Yesterday” Gregory quickly remembered his manners “Happy birthday, Mrs Holmes”

“For a minute I didn't recognise you”

“It's the haircut”

Mummy looked him up and down appraisingly “To say the least”

“Some surprise, isn't he, Mummy?”

“He certainly is, son”

Sherlock, hearing everything he needed to know in his mother’s tone, gracefully steered Gregory towards the floor.

“Dance with me”

“What, really? Here? Now?”

“While the music's playing. It's harder when they stop. Come on”

In a swift fluid movement, Sherlock pulled Gregory into a clinch and started to turn in time to the music.

He sensed Gregory hesitate “What is it?”

“You know, I've been to every party you've ever had. Right there” He pointed to the branches overhanging the garden. “Watching from that tree. Like a bat. And now here we are, dancing in front of God and everyone.”

“I should have paid more attention to you. I don't know what I was thinking of”

“Yourself…probably” Gregory was besotted but it didn’t stop him being a realist.

“It feels so good to hold you.”

“Does it?”

“Do you know how gorgeous you are? You're dazzling”

“Dazzling?”

“Suddenly back in my life and dazzling”

“I’m back in your life?” Gregory wasn’t sure he had ever been in Sherlock’s life in the first place but he decided not to let it ruin the moment.

“I don't think you realise what you've done to me.”

“Then why don’t you tell me.”

“You're changing everything.” As Sherlock said the words out loud he had a sudden fear they might be true.

******

Sherlock and Gregory dancing, not only cheek to cheek but apparently also groin to groin was not going unnoticed by the Watsons, leaving Mummy to defuse the tension.

“He's like a little brother to him, Ingrid”

“I have a brother. That's not how we dance”

Maude conceded that Ingrid Watson had a point, she excused herself and made her way back into the house; she loved Sherlock, but she had two sons, and as a former Intelligence officer during the cold war she loved her country too. Mrs Holmes was what was commonly known as a tough cookie, she knew what impact the deal with Patrick Watson meant to British security and she wasn’t about to let it go without a fight. It was time to bring in the big guns.

She found Mycroft in the library with Lady Smallwood, Sir Edwin and a couple of his particular cronies who had ducked out of the celebrations to work on the plan to make full use of Patrick Watson’s collaboration.

Mummy wasted no time on pleasantries, going straight up to Mycroft and whispering quite forcefully into his ear.

“It's Gregory. Go and see” pointing through the French windows to the party outside.

Mycroft, who had been anticipating this turn of events since the previous afternoon, was on his feet and out through the doors in an instant leaving Mummy to placate his guests.

Back on the dance floor, Sherlock’s moves were running their usual course. Hold a gently swaying Gregory he moved in for the kill. He’d missed this, the thrill of the chase, the blood pumping through his veins, just him and the object of his desire, in a world of their own on the dance floor. It might have been any good looking guy who caught his eye, although in this case he was genuinely knocked sideways by the change in the chauffer’s son that he had largely ignored for the best part of twenty years.

“I can't believe this is happening. You're absolutely transformed.”

“And you're exactly the same. You were perfect. You still are.”

“Yes? Let's go somewhere where we can talk.”

“We are talking”

“Somewhere else… Please. I haven't seen you in years. I'm not sure I ever saw you. Come with me. For a little while. We could just go…”

Gregory knew the next line “To the orangery?”

“What?”

“It has to be the orangery. And you bring a bottle of champagne... and you put the glasses in the back pockets of your jacket…” Gregory faltered, there was something wrong with that image but he couldn’t say what.

Sherlock smiled, what a perfect peach.

“I don't think there are any back pockets to my jacket. You weren’t paying close enough attention”

“…And the orchestra will play... _You do something to me_ ”

“Yes. I'll have them do that” Sherlock smiled his sensational smile, dropped a kiss on Gregory’s lips and turned to walk away towards the band leaving his latest conquest alone on the dance floor to run his fingers through his hair and whisper to himself

“And then afterwards... I'll wake up”

******

Sherlock had collected two glasses (which he had tucked into the back of his trousers – not the non-existent back pockets of his jacket) and a bottle of champagne, and was making his way as unobtrusively as possible to the orangery when he was waylaid by Mycroft in full big brother mode.

“Sherlock. A word?”

“Actually. I have an appointment”

“Correct”

Mycroft swiftly turned his brother round and steered him through the library windows. The room now cleared of everyone except Mummy, who wasted no time in laying down the law.

“Sherlock, what are you doing? Are you insane? Right in front of your prominent... and paranoid future in-laws... you are vamping the chauffeur's son!”

“We were dancing”

“Stop dancing”

“Can’t I have a drink and a dance with an old friend?”

“Do I look stupid?” Mummy addressed an invisible audience “I never thought of myself as stupid, but maybe I am”

“I didn't do anything”

“You were planning to!”

“How do you know?”

“Sherlock, you're like my own son.”

“I am your own son, Mummy”

“Exactly! I endured twenty-one hours of hard labour to bring you into the world. The doctors begged me to take drugs... but I kept saying I wouldn't do anything to hurt my child. Well, I've changed my mind. You mess this up with John, and I'll kill you.”

“I don't know Mummy, there's something about Gregory. I think… I know this sounds ridiculous… but I think I'm falling in love with him”

“Oh, God!”

“Listen, I didn't plan this. I can't help it. He's so… I don’t know... Sensational?”

Mycroft, who had been silently observing his brother while formulating a plan was now quick to point out “The last time you found someone sensational it cost the family two and a quarter million”

“This time it's different”

Mummy took over again “Oh, that's so original. What about John? You finally find the right boy…”

“Who's got the right parents who produce the right technology?”

“You asked him to marry you”

“Actually, he asked me”

Mycroft decided to attempt reason with Sherlock despite the knowledge that he was the last person his brother would listen to. “What do you think Gregory wants? He's lived his whole life above the garage... with his nose pressed against the glass or in that tree... watching us at parties. Now you invite him to one. You're in your Spencer Hart suit or whatever. You tell him to meet you in the orangery. He knows you'll show up with a bottle of champagne”

Sherlock hearing his methods so accurately dissected started to protest “That has nothing to do with it”

Mycroft ignored him “He knows what's coming. The trip in the private jet, the cottage full of food and flowers. House seats to some sold-out show. Drinks at the Criterion. A day or two of that, he'd fall for Donald Trump”

“Who? You don't know Gregory or the way he makes me feel. I can't be engaged to somebody when I feel like this”

Throughout the conversation between himself, Mummy and his brother, Mycroft had been studying Sherlock as his brother paced the room, there was definitely something spoiling the line of his jacket, it was sticking out awkwardly behind him. Mycroft deduced the cause and an idea blossomed “Sit down, Sherlock”

“I can't talk about this now”

“Just sit down”

Reluctantly, faced with the force of his brother’s will, Sherlock sat down heavily into the nearest chair, there was a momentary sound of glass crunching before he gave a sharp agonised yell.

“What?”

“The glasses, they were tucked into the back of my trousers, I sat on the glasses!”

“Don't move.” Mummy was all concern now that her baby was injured. Mycroft took charge.

“Mummy, Get Dr Sawyer. She's at the bar”

“Who put glasses on the chair?”

“Don’t worry about that now Mummy, fetch Dr Sawyer”

Gingerly Sherlock reached behind himself, his hand came away red, “I'm bleeding”

“Oh, my God! Mycroft, stay with him. Darling, don't worry. Just elevate something.”

Mummy left, in search of the family doctor

Sherlock suddenly remembered his original appointment and grimaced.

“Bad?”

“Gregory. I was on my way to the orangery, He's waiting for me”

“Have no fear Sherlock. I’ll take care of him.”


	6. Chapter 6

Gregory had been running on empty more or less since he left Canada. The excitement of returning home, the elation of bumping into Sherlock and the invitation to Mrs Holmes’ party had vanished leaving him with the beginning of what promised to be a huge adrenaline crash. As someone who had studied all Sherlock’s moves over many years Gregory knew that he should have been here by now. He had begun to suspect that Sherlock, who after all was engaged to be married, had changed his mind. After the anticipation the sense of disappointment threatened to overwhelm him, added to the chronic jet lag, Gregory felt suddenly emotionally and physically exhausted.

He was jolted out of his introspection when he heard the door of the orangery open and the sound of glasses clinking against each other. Sherlock! Gregory‘s spirits lifted as he turned round quickly only to have them fall again. It was Mycroft Holmes of all people, walking towards him carrying a bottle of champagne. What on earth was he doing here?

“Hello, Gregory. I have a message from Sherlock. He won't be able to make it. He sent me...I'm sorry... You're upset, naturally”

Gregory battling tiredness and the effects of two glasses of champagne on an empty stomach was fighting to keep up

“I don't know… may be… yes… No. I am a little tired. Why didn't Sherlock come?”

“He was on his way when he had a slight accident. He sat on a champagne flute.”

“Is he okay?”

“Dr Sawyer’s with him, patching him up”.

“Dr Sawyer?”

“It was a sharp flute. That's a little joke”

It wasn’t funny.

“Should I go and see him?”

“I’m not sure he would appreciate that… it’s little undignified. Couple of stitches and he’ll be fine. You can see him tomorrow. In the meantime perhaps you’d join me…”

Mycroft had swiftly uncorked the bottle and was pouring the champagne with practiced ease. Gregory looked on bemused.

“What's this for?”

“It’s part of the message from Sherlock.”

At once Gregory understood.

“They've sent you to deal with me, haven't they?”

“They?”

“Like a lawyer in a film. He goes to the unsuitable waitress... or showgirl or chauffeur's son... and says the family is prepared to offer you a hundred thousand pounds... to stay away from their son .No, she says…One Hundred and fifty? He says”

“Two hundred thousand!”

“No”

“A million” Mycroft added softly “No self-respecting lawyer would offer less”

“No self-respecting waitress... would take it”

“Good boy”

Trapped within the confines of the orangery Gregory walked away from Mycroft. Gregory didn’t want his approval; he certainly didn’t want his condescension. He just wanted Sherlock.

“I've loved him all my life”

“I know”

“I thought I was over it”

“Sherlock takes a lot of getting over”.

“You don't object?”

“Object? To you? Look at you. It's as though a breath of fresh air has swept through this whole house”

“Even though the fresh air... comes from the general direction of the garage?

“It's the twenty first century, Gregory, class is irrelevant”

“So they say, so if it’s not class what is the issue here?”

Mycroft sipped his champagne and didn’t reply.

Beyond the orangery, from the stage the orchestra had begun to play what Gregory always thought of as Sherlock’s song. The words seemed to float in the air.

_“You do something to me. Something that simply mystifies me._

It brought Gregory back down to earth with a bump as he remembered the reason he was in the orangery in the first place. “They played that the night before I left for Montreal”

“They often do play that”

“He was dancing right here with someone”

“He often does do that… and tonight you wanted it to be you”

_Tell me, why should it be, you have the power to hypnotise me._

Mycroft put down the champagne glass and moved closer to Gregory, so that they were almost touching. With one fluid movement he caught hold of Gregory at the waist with his right hand and held up his left.

Gregory was taken aback, but had no will to refuse only pausing to note that Mycroft had placed himself in the lead.

“It's all in the family”

_Let me live 'neath your spell. Do do that voodoo that you do so well._

“I never thought of you as a dancer”

“Crazy about it. They call me Brucie at work”.

_For you do something to me That nobody else can do._

Gregory was dancing with Mycroft, it was extraordinary and he could help but say so.

“In all those years, I never saw you do this-- meet a boy, or a girl, here with champagne”

“That is because I never did it before”

“You mean you never had to before”

“Is it impossible to believe that I want to dance... with the best looking guy at the party?”

Gregory immediately replied. “Yes, it is impossible to believe”

“Then you don't know me. I almost forgot. The rest of the message from Sherlock”

And with that Mycroft leaned forward and planted a kiss on Gregory’s mouth.

It took some seconds for Gregory to react. Mycroft’s lips were cold and dry; he could smell the faint aroma of champagne. His mind registered that in the space of an hour he had been kissed by both Holmes brothers but only one had been welcome. With no further thought he formed a fist with his right hand and socked Mycroft under the jaw, not hard, but hard enough.

“Thanks. I needed that”

“What have I done” Gregory was panicking now, he had thumped his father’s boss.

“No, I apologise”

“I shouldn’t have… you have a red mark”

Mycroft rubbed the spot ruefully “Maybe it's better if you pick up your messages in person. You'll see Sherlock tomorrow. Good night Gregory”

******

As Mycroft walked back to the main house a plan was forming in his mind. Mycroft Holmes was a master tactician and could devise strategies in his sleep. Not for the first time he was facing a delicate situation of his brother’s making. He poured himself a measure of the single malt and sat at his desk deep in thought. In his mind he arranged the players in this particular drama, Gregory, Sherlock and John, and reviewed their parts and assigned them roles. He then brought in the supporting cast, Mummy, Mr and Mrs Watson, Anthea and Lady Smallwood and wrote their lines. Finally satisfied that the plot was watertight he reached for his mobile and phoned Anthea, barking out instructions impervious to his slightly groggy sounding assistant’s replies.

“Anthea, I'm going to need to absent myself for the next two days. Cancel whatever I've got on and reschedule. Have the plane stand by for tomorrow morning, I’ll confirm the time as soon as I know it... and set up the house on Sìthichean… I don't know. Flowers, candles, singers. Call Sherlock's secretary. It's the only thing she ever does”

Anthea ventured to suggest that lrene might not be awake.

“Why not? Hell, I'm up. You're up. You weren't? Well, call her anyway”

Mycroft rang off and immediately scrolled down to call Sarah Sawyer, the family doctor, who having attended to Sherlock following the accident, and satisfied her patient would be comfortable for the night had gone home. She had just managed to get off to sleep when Mycroft rang.

“What is there, an epidemic of sleeping sickness? Okay, listen. Sherlock taken quite a bit of stuff in the past so his resilience is pretty high, I want you to give him a combination... of morphine and I don't…”

Dr Sawyer protested “You can’t possibly be suggesting that we prescribe someone with Sherlock’s history morphine”

“Okay, well perhaps not morphine, but something strong... and mixed with a sleeping tablet like tiazolam.

There were further protests from the doctor concerning side effects

“They haven't proved that, Sarah”

Dr Sawyer, knowing that her career in medicine was in Mycroft’s hands quickly changed the subject to the cause of the accident.

“We have no idea. Maude thinks they were left on the chair by some guest”

Dr Sawyer thought that this might lead to litigation, which might involve her giving evidence. Mycroft reassured her.

“He's not going to sue his own mother…. Well, he's not me”

******

Although he had not gone to bed until after three, Mycroft was up again by six and already working. He had instructed Anthea to cancel his face-to-face meetings for the next couple of days but there were still a number of things that required his attention, particularly as both Beijing and Pyongyang had been up for hours, which he could easily deal with by email and phone.

While he did this he applied a subsidiary part of his mind to the next stage of his campaign to eliminate the threat posed by Gregory Lestrade. Here it appeared Mycroft had come up against the first hurdle. Gregory was a handsome young man, and Mycroft was suddenly very much aware that he was a stuffed shirt in a suit.

In town, where he spent most of his week, he dressed unobtrusively but expensively as befitted the minor government official he claimed to be; a devotee of the bespoke three piece suit, cut conservatively and a trifle long in the leg, with the only homage to his own personality in his choice of handkerchief.

Casual was not a word that could describe anything about Mycroft’s apparel, the closest he came to it was his strict adherence to tweeds when in the country. He surveyed the contents of his wardrobe with something akin to dismay, he thought of Gregory as he had been when Sherlock had dropped him off, all denim and leather and realised he had his work cut out. Reluctantly he pulled on a pair of olive green cords and a light checked shirt, his tweed waistcoat and its matching jacket. He tried a number of cravats with the shirt but decided they made him look louche; an open neck was an anathema so he finally settled on a red knit tie. He found a cap he thought he might get away with, closed his laptop and went off in search of his mother.

Maude was also awake, having spent a restless night alternatively fretting about Sherlock’s injury and cursing his behaviour. Mycroft tracked her down to the gym where she was taking out her frustration on the step machine. She was rather surprised to see Mycroft in civvies.

“Surely you're not going into work dressed like that, are you?”

“Did Patrick Watson say anything after I left last night?”

“He wondered where everybody had gone, but nothing specific; do you think I should talk to Gregory?”

“And say what?"

“Gregory, you're very lovely... but Sherlock has a short attention span. Tomorrow you’ll be yesterday’s news. Do you think that’s a little harsh?''

“Do you know when John’s due back?”

“Friday… Should we try to get him back sooner?”

“No I don't want to give Sherlock the opportunity to break off the engagement. This all happened in twenty four hours. I can make it unhappen in forty-eight. I like Gregory. I always have. But I'm not about to wave goodbye to the smartest piece of technology this century’s produced. I don't care what he did to his hair”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brucie - British entertainer Bruce Forsyth, original host of Strictly Come Dancing


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft gets to work.

Unlike Mycroft and Maude Holmes, Gregory had slept for eight hours and woken refreshed and reenergised. He was keen to visit Sherlock and to discover what might have been had they in fact managed an encounter in the orangery. He dressed carefully and to his advantage in a fine knit sweater and chinos and went over to the main house feeling pretty good about life, Sherlock hadn’t stood him up, he’d been hurt, there was still a chance, though some of the old anxiety returned when Mycroft, whom he had been hoping to avoid, greeted him at the door.

“I'll take you up to see Sherlock”

This was quite unnecessary, Gregory of all people, was fully aware of the location of Sherlock’s bedroom but he had no choice but to thank Mycroft politely and let him lead the way.

His heart’s desire lay sprawled face down on his bed snoring gently, Gregory couldn’t help noticing the curve of Sherlock’s luscious behind that was hardly disguised by the blanket covering it and he hoped the damage wasn’t lasting. That would be a crime.

“Hi Sherlock” There was no reply and Gregory looked at the nurse and asked “Can he hear me?”

Mycroft called his brother by name quite sharply and Sherlock’s eyes flew open.

“Hello” he slurred, paused around his next words and then said apropos of nothing “….I have an international reputation”

“How are you feeling? Are you in a lot of pain?”

“Am I in a lot of pain?” Sherlock seemed to consider the question before going back to his original train of thought “Do you have an international reputation Gregory?”

“No I don’t have an international reputation”

“You hear what happened to me?” 

“I did. I feel awful”

“I feel awful too... How do you feel, Mycroft?”

Gregory was starting to be really concerned, he knew from kitchen gossip that Sherlock had dabbled in drugs in the past, but that was in London and he’d never seen him like this.

“Do you want me to stay with you?”

The last thing Mycroft wanted was for Gregory to spend the day, and possibly the night, playing nursemaid to Sherlock. Before his brother could answer, Mycroft intervened.

“He just needs peace and quiet to recuperate, Gregory, he has a private nurse and we’ve got him two-days’ supply of gingernuts. He’ll be fine”

“If you’re sure” Gregory would have preferred to stay, he and Sherlock had unfinished business and he was keen to see how that would pan out, but even in his besotted state he could tell he would get no sense out of him anytime soon and anyway Mycroft was edging him to the door.

“I'm sure he'll be more responsive next time. Don't worry.”

Gregory had no choice but to leave, although his reluctance was all over his face.

******

As Gregory walked down the stairs with Mycroft, he had time to take in Mycroft’s rather peculiar attire. He didn’t think he had ever seen him out of a pin stripe suit before; it was odd and vaguely disconcerting. Mycroft had produce a flat cap from somewhere, it looked so incongruous Gregory couldn’t help but stare at Mycroft wide eyed in disbelief; Mycroft shifted a little and then took it off, to the relief of both of them.

“Are you not going to work today?”

“Not to the city, no. I have other business today”

They carried on down the stairs until they reached the front door. Mycroft, Gregory reflected, was obviously determined to ensure he left the house so he was surprised when he spoke to him again.

“You know, I was wondering you might be of assistance to me. Mother owns a property, Sìthichean, that’s an island off the coast of Scotland, we never use. We’ve been talking about putting it up for sale. I’m going there today to see about the paperwork and it would probably be a good idea to have a few pictures taken, to give the agents an idea of what we want. I couldn’t help noticing you have an interest in photography. I thought you might like to take them. Trip would be no trouble. Helicopter could pick us up here; the plane is on standby at Biggin Hill. Is that a lot to ask?”

If Gregory hadn’t known Mycroft Holmes, or at least his reputation, so well he might have thought that the older man was nervous. His request seemed to be made in the full expectation that it would be declined. It was this that probably prompted Gregory to agree, as well as the fact he felt rather flat after all the activity of the previous three days. His father was working, Sherlock was asleep, he was at a loose end, it might be interesting and anyway, no one ever refused Mycroft anything,

******

As soon as he boarded the jet Gregory knew he had made the right decision. The brief helicopter ride to the aerodrome, which Mycroft insisted was for time saving purposes, had been noisy and exhilarating but the plane was something else altogether. Gregory was tempted to ask if it was really Air Force One, or something the Royal Family might borrow from time to time. There was even a smartly dressed steward to attend to their every need.

“Something to drink, Mr Lestrade?”

Gregory wasn’t sure what was on offer though he suspected if he asked for a pint of Moosehead or a Caesar cocktail the attendant would have been right back. In the end he settled for a Pellegrino which apparently was a wise choice as Mycroft had the same.

Mycroft was busy on the phone so he contented himself with looking out of the window, fascinated by the changing landscape as the plane passed over the north of England and into Scotland. Gregory let his mind wander over everything that had happened since he had landed back in England such a short while ago; he certainly hadn’t expected to be back in a plane so quickly, and certainly not one as luxurious as this. He wondered if he would be allowed to look round and tentatively asked Mycroft when he had a break in his calls.

“Do you think I could visit the cockpit?”

“It’s called the flight deck on a civilian aircraft”

Gregory was crushed, but Mycroft signalled to the attendant who took him up to meet the pilots.

When he returned from a very enjoyable lesson in civil aviation which had left Gregory even more impressed by the plane than he had thought possible, Mycroft was still in the throes of one of his high powered telephone calls. Or at least it sounded high powered to Gregory.

“Anthea, anything from Sir Edwin? What about number 10? No, tell him I'll call him back as soon as I can”

When he noticed Gregory’s return Mycroft was reminded of the true purpose of the trip.

“I'm sorry… I’ve been ignoring you. What did you make of your tour?”

“It's a beautiful airplane; I've never been in anything like it. The spec is incredible”

Mycroft had no opinion on the plane apart from the speed and efficiency with which it got him from A to B. He gathered that answer would not satisfy his companion, so he said nothing.

“Haven’t you ever looked round?”

“When do I have time?”

“What happened to all that time we saved taking the helicopter?”

“I'm storing it up”

Gregory wasn’t fooled. “No, you're not”

******

The island was picture perfect on a glorious summer day without a cloud in the sky. Gregory guessed it could be cold and inhospitable in winter but in July it seemed like paradise. The plane touched down on a small landing strip cut into the hills above the main settlement that gave them a wonderful panoramic view of the bay and the cottages that lined the coastal path. Immediately Gregory took out his camera and started snapping.

“Let me take you to the house”

Gregory slung his camera round his neck and followed Mycroft along the track that ran from the airfield to the village. They stopped when they reached one of the larger cottages, with its whitewashed walls and painted shutters it looked like it belonged on a postcard.

Inside the cottage was just as spectacular, set up as if awaiting a photo-shoot with the dining table set for six and a marvellous spread of local produce laid out on the sideboard. Gregory took a number of photographs, trying to remember all he had learned from watching Sally and Louis at work. Upstairs the beds were made with expensive linens and the bathrooms equipped with everything anyone would need for an extended stay. Back downstairs Gregory had the feeling that he had walked onto a film set, and that if he reached out and took one of the apples on display he would find it was made of wax.

“Is it always like this?”

Mycroft hesitated “I don't know. I haven't been here in years”

Shocked Gregory exclaimed “How can you have a place like this and never come here?”

Mycroft seemed reluctant to reply “Maybe because I have never had anybody to share it with”

Gregory knew he was being played and decided not to let Mycroft get away with it.

“Well, you could always hire somebody”

******

Gregory had more or less finished taking photos of the inside when he turned his camera on Mycroft, just for the fun of seeing his reaction. He wasn’t disappointed; Mycroft’s hand immediately went up in front of his face.

“No, wait, not me. The house, please.”

Gregory decided to argue for the sake of it. “You're in the house. It humanises it.”

“I don't like having my picture taken. I come out... looking depressed. “

“Are you depressed? “

“Maybe that's not exactly the right word.”

“What is the right word?”

“I don't know. Lonely, maybe”

The concept of Mycroft Holmes owning up to something as mundane as emotions was so bizarre that Gregory wasn’t quite sure how to react, he let out and involuntary laugh, partly from nerves partly from embarrassment.

“You think that's funny?”

“No. I just expected you to say something else”

“No, I suppose you're right. It is funny. Mycroft Holmes is lonely”

Gregory didn’t know what to make of it; he had an unexpected glimpse of his father’s employer’s life that made him suddenly feel quite sorry for the man. Was Mycroft lonely? Gregory couldn’t imagine if he was he would ever admit to it, but he never seemed to do anything but work, he’d never known him to have a friend or a lover, only work colleagues and assistants. Even Sherlock, his own flesh and blood, had been heard to refer to Mycroft as his arch-enemy. Perhaps life was tougher at the top than he made out.

His face must have given his thoughts away, as the older man began to apologise. He had forgotten Mycroft could read a person like a book.

“I’m sorry. I made you uncomfortable. Let’s take a look outside” They stepped out through the front door of the cottage and onto the esplanade with its magnificent vista of the cove, the headland, the cliffs and the sea.

“Would you like a view from the house?”

“Good idea”

“Which one?”

“All of them”

And there, to Gregory’s great relief, was the old Mycroft, back in harness.

“More isn't always better, Mycroft. Sometimes it's just more.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are many beautiful islands off the coast of Scotland, Sìthichean is a fictional combination of a few of them.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft continues his campaign.
> 
> Bonus longer chapter as there may be this thing called Christmas that gets in the way of editing the fic next week

Mycroft was saved by the bell, or at least the vibration of his own mobile phone.

“I’m sorry, I need to take this”. Gregory marvelled that Mycroft had a signal here in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by water, his own phone had been blank since before they had landed. Then he realised Mycroft’s was probably the latest satellite technology and stifled a pang of envy. Gregory stood a short distance apart from Mycroft to give him his privacy and watched the older man as he talked animatedly into the phone. He hadn’t spent so much time with Mycroft since he was a child; he had forgotten what a strange, unnerving experience it could be.

Gregory would have had even more reason to feel unsettled had he been able to overhear his host’s conversation with Mummy as she gave him a report on Sherlock’s condition and Mycroft reported back on his own progress.

“Here? Well I have been successful in my first objective to put as much distance between Gregory and Sherlock possible, the second, to provide Gregory with a distraction that will focus his attentions elsewhere, is proving somewhat more onerous, I don't know what to try”

Mummy rather thought that if Mycroft had been serious in providing Gregory with something (or someone) to take his mind off Sherlock, he would have been better served by taking him to Canal Street, but she wisely kept that thought to herself.

Mycroft rang off; he was allowing himself to be distracted from the task in hand, time to give his companion his full attention.

“We'll have some lunch, and then you probably ought to get a look at the island while you're here.

******

Gregory was pleased to discover that the food in the cottage was not made of wax or wood and was both edible and delicious. After he had eaten his fill and watched Mycroft watch him eat they set of for a tour of the island. Mycroft carried an elegantly furled umbrella although there wasn’t a cloud in the sky but which seemed to serve as a kind of walking stick.

The island was pretty in the height of summer, as well as the rows of whitewashed cottages, with colourful window boxes and hanging baskets swaying gently in the breeze, there were a number of stone crofts dotted around the hillside. Mycroft lead Gregory along the lane that wound up the hill above the bay, past a picturesque little church and what appeared to be a school complete with a bell tower. From their vantage point Gregory could see the cliffs, the men working on their boats in the small harbour, the jetty and at the far end, a light-house.

Mycroft encouraged Gregory to take pictures of everything, pointing out buildings that he thought he might have missed. Gregory began to be suspicious “You make it sounds as if it is all for sale”

Mycroft looked distinctly shifty. “As it happens, it is all included in the sale”

“What?”

“The island, we own it, that is, my family does and we are putting it up for sale”

“You own an island, a whole island? How does that happen?”

“It came to my father through his mother’s line – there was an entailment but it was broken by my three times great grandfather”

“An entailment?”

“An arrangement that ties the goods and chattels of an individual to their principal heir, it means that the assets cannot be dissipated or willed away through the female or sinister line”

“Like Pride and Prejudice”

“Quite so, though Ms Austen, not being trained in probate of inheritance law rather oversimplified the matter”

“So does that make you Mr Collins, Mr Holmes?”

Gregory was rather amused by the idea, unlike Mycroft who, although he had little time for fiction, was aware that the comparison to the parson was not a favourable one.

Mycroft bristled “I would prefer to think I was on the side of the Bennetts”

“So your side of the family got the land and the money, does that mean there’s some penniless sod somewhere with the title?”

“Not as such”

Gregory was learning to interpret Mycroft’s prevarications “That means there is. Where is he then? In a council flat in Aberdeen?”

“Running a beach bar in Adelaide, in fact”

Gregory stopped walking and rested against a low stone wall that gave him the most spectacular view of the village below. “How many people live on this island?”

“On Sithichean? Around 250, several more in the summer season”

“Your family own all the houses? The church, the shops, the hotel, the lighthouse?”

“Mostly, there are three of four where we only own the freehold, and the church is tied up in some kind of deed trust”

“And the people who live here, they have no idea that you are about to sell the island, lock stock and barrel over their heads, and they could end up with anyone as their landlord. That’s…”

Gregory couldn’t finish, he knew the Holmes family were enormously wealthy and owned property all over the world; he had lived in their house since he was two years old, and they had never been anything but kind to him. Mrs Holmes in particular had ensured that his mother had had the best of care during her illness and had supported him and his father after she’d died. However, there was something about Mycroft’s attitude to the sale of the island that offended him deeply. It was just wrong that one person could hold the fate of a community in his hand and Gregory said so.

“I didn’t realise you were an anarchist?”

“I’m not”

“Non? La propriété, c'est le vol?”

“I’d rather be an anarchist than a plutocrat” Gregory muttered under his breath; he really didn’t want to have a major fall out with Mycroft Holmes while he was eight hundred miles from home.

Mycroft’s acute hearing and lip reading skills meant that he knew exactly what the younger man had said. Although his face gave nothing away he was growing increasingly concerned. The whole success of his scheme had rested on Mycroft’s ability to lure Gregory’s affections away from Sherlock and on to himself. He may have a reputation as an iceman but he was as capable as his brother of flirting for the good of the cause. He’d told his mother that with a plane ride and a trip to the seaside he could make Gregory fall for anyone, even Donald Trump. All he managed was to convince Gregory that he _was_ Donald Trump. It was a disaster.

Could he lock Gregory in the cottage and head back to Brighton without him? He probably could make the charges of abduction go away but on previous experience it was more likely to increase Sherlock’s interest than lessen it. Mycroft determined not to waste any more time. He had charmed and flattered oligarchs, despots and various other nefarious presidents to his own ends, surely he could manage to turn the head of one susceptible twenty year old?

“Come, I’ll treat you to supper”

******

Gregory imagined that Mycroft meant them to dine at the hotel, and wondered if he might find a dinner jacket waiting for him back at the cottage. Instead there was a cool box and a basket of provisions including a loaf wrapped in muslin and freshly baked judging by the smell in the kitchen.

Adding a large flat griddle pan and a box of matches, they walked down to the sand dunes by the beach. Gregory watched in amazement as Mycroft dug a pit in the sand, filled it with drift wood and lit a fire. He melted garlic butter on the griddle and produced a shoal of long fat shrimp like creatures which he placed in the pan.

“Langoustines, a local delicacy. My father always cooked them this way when we came here as children. Mummy used to stand by with the extinguisher and the first aid box, we never needed them but it was always a close run thing”

“You don’t have either”

“I’m not my father”

“He sounds fun; I wish I had met him”

“He was fun; sadly he died when I was thirteen and Sherlock six. I think the fun and laughter went out of the house with him”

“I’m sorry…it’s tough to lose a parent at that age… I was thirteen when Mum died”

“I know. Let’s raise a glass to them both. Why don’t you open the wine?”

This Gregory could do, he retrieved the Zind-Humbrecht Pinot Gris and a corkscrew from the cool box and opened the bottle carefully as his father had taught him before pouring a little into a glass for Mycroft.

“Would Sir like to try the wine?”

Mycroft produced a genuine smile “I’m sure it will be perfect” at over one hundred pounds a bottle it ought to be.

Gregory finished pouring the wine while Mycroft cooked.

“Tell me about Canada. Do you miss Montreal?”

“A little but mainly I’m glad to be home”

“You liked it there?”

“I loved it, but it was like…”

“What?”

“Nothing, you wouldn’t be interested”

“You don’t know that”

“It’s that thing about a gap year, or even two, it’s just a gap, a space between lives. It was a great way to fill a space, but towards the end I felt my life was on hold, and it was time to get back and start living”

“And what does living involve? Photography?”

Gregory shook his head “I don’t have what it takes to do it professionally. I always wanted to join the police, the Met, but while I was in Canada I began to think there wasn’t anything for me in England… what with Brexit …and Sherlock… so I thought it might go to France, join the National Police or the Gendarmerie, I have dual citizenship so I could do either”

Mycroft’s British establishment hackles rose at the implied criticism of his country but at the same time he spotted a glimmer of hope.

“You’d seriously go and live in France?”

“Paris if possible, that’s where we are from originally and it’s close enough to dad for me to visit quickly if he needs me. I’ve been there so many times it always feels like home, and I love the way of life there. You'd probably hate it”

“Why so?”

“It's all about pleasure. They work hard. They just know when to quit and enjoy themselves”

“It sounds delightful”

“If you can’t say it convincingly don’t say it at all. And anyway” Gregory said defiantly “The thought of staying in England has its attraction back”

******

“Are you done?”

“I don't think I can eat anymore”

“It's too late to give them their freedom”

Replete and slightly drunk, Gregory surveyed the older man. “You know, you are not exactly what people say you are”

“And pray… What do they say I am?”

“You know. Well... that you're the world's only living heart donor”

“I think you will find that there are a number of living donors, who have received a heart and lung transplant in return…” Mycroft deliberately misunderstood Gregory’s comment.

“Ok so try this one for size. He thinks that morals are paintings on walls... and scruples are money in Russia”

“I have excellent Russian”

“And then there's my favourite…”

“That will do, I get the picture” Mycroft paused and then said “What would you do about the island?”

“Not sell it” Gregory answered immediately.

“I thought you said all property was theft”

“No you said that, I just didn’t disagree with you. If the island must be owned, you seem good landlords, the place is flourishing, families, fishing, the school, everything is well looked after”

“And if I said we have to sell it?”

Gregory looked thoughtful for a moment “Then sell it to them, the Islanders, help them to get organised and set up a collective. It’s been done before”

“So you’re a communist as well as an anarchist?”

“Well I am mostly French!”

To his surprise, Mycroft laughed out loud, and Gregory could help but join in, he realised he was relaxed and happy, though that was probably the wine. “Do you remember the rainy afternoon we spent together?”

“Remind me”

“My mum was visiting Grand’Mere and my father had left me with one of the maids while he drove Mrs Homes and Sherlock into town for a violin lesson”

“How old was he?”

“I can’t be sure. Twelve, thirteen?”

“Ah yes, when he still though his tutor could teach him something”

“It was a rainy afternoon. Stormy. I was afraid, and I came into the big house... and tried to turn on a lamp, but I got a shock. I thought I'd been struck by lightning. And you stayed with me all afternoon... till my father came home”

“I remember. You didn't cry. You were a brave kid”

“I was more afraid of you than being electrocuted. Everybody was”

Gregory took another slug of wine, it really was delicious. May be he could get his dad a bottle.

“Is there a reason you’ve never settled down? ...Stupid question. You probably don't believe in true love”

Mycroft didn’t but he knew that was the last thing he could admit to.

“Yes, I do. That's why I’ve never settled for anything less. Sherlock, on the other hand, believes in the tooth fairy”

“Sherlock’s never heard of the tooth fairy, that's why I like him”

“Well, I like him too. I worry about him… constantly… but I don't know what to do with him. When he was a kid, he was so bright and happy, interested in everything. He wanted to be a pirate, but I always thought we’d work together. One day, he just changed, lost all direction, that’s when the drugs came along. I can't figure it out, I used to think he was the way he was because of the drugs, but now I think he took drugs because of the way he was…

“We need to get in the air before dusk. Come along”

Throwing sand onto the fire and tidying up behind them, they made their way back to the cottage in silence both thinking of the little boy who had wanted to be a pirate but had somehow lost his way.

******

It was nearly midnight by the time the car dropped them back at the Holmes estate. Mycroft walked Gregory back to the door of the Mews flat.

Gregory remembered his manners “It was a nice day, thank you”

“You were somewhat tough on me, I thought”

“I guess you're used to being treated very carefully”

“When will you have the pictures?”

“I can email them over to you in the morning… unless you want prints?”

“Prints would be preferable”

“I’d need to use the editing suite at my old college. The technician’s a friend of mine. I’ll call her and see if it is ok”

“Could you drop them by the office?”

“I’ll let you know”

“Well, good night, then, Gregory”

“Mycroft!” Gregory called him back.

“Yes”

“My father once asked Sherlock... what he did with his time. And Sherlock said I’m a consulting detective, the only one in the world. I invented the job”

“Listen, I do real work in the real world. While Sherlock plays at dragon slaying”

“I know you work in the real world, and you're awfully good at it. I'll bet you haven't made a wrong move since you were three. But that's work. Where do you live, Mycroft?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Canal Street is the centre of the gay district of Manchester.  
> La propriété, c'est le vol - Roughly 'all property is theft'


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft is frustrated and Gregory gets advice from a friend

Gregory slept late the next morning, it had been after midnight when he had climbed into bed and once there sleep eluded him. Overstimulated by the sights and sounds of the day, his mind raced around the different experiences like a car on a roller coaster and he had found it impossible to relax. Even trying his usual trick of impure thoughts of Sherlock failed as when he closed his eyes he saw Mycroft’s face and heard his voice which was enough to put anyone off their stroke.

A few restless hours later he heard his father pottering round the flat getting ready for work. Gregory didn’t feel up to the inevitable interrogation regarding his whereabouts the day before so he rolled over and went back to sleep.

Unfortunately, for Gregory, his late return the night before had been clocked by Janine who could not resist telling all at the staff breakfast.

“I heard a car, so I looked out the window so I did... and I saw someone, a young man. So I said to myself what is a young man doing in the courtyard at this time of night? So I am looking and looking, and I see it is Gregory. He’s talking. Who is he talking to? Another man. Not his daddy, because he’s too tall”

“It was Mycroft” Mrs Hudson cut to the chase “Gregory went out with Mycroft”

“It was Mr Mycroft”

“Gregory went out with Mycroft? That's too weird” Lucy was appalled.

“I thought the guy was…you know”

“No Jeff, I don’t know” Mrs Hudson said sharply.

“Well ace or something”

“Mycroft Holmes is an ace? What’s one of those when it’s up and dressed?”

“It’s not ‘an ace’ Janine it is just ‘ace’”

At that moment Tom Lestrade appeared and took his seat at the table, Mrs Hudson gave his hand a squeeze for moral support.

“Mycroft Holmes’ sexuality is no-one’s business but his own. Now can we please drop the subject and get on with breakfast. There’s work to be done”

******

Gregory finally got up and dressed about ten, the flat was quiet, his father had gone to work which if his luck was in would mean that Mycroft was absent too, for some reason he had no wish to run into the elder Holmes. Gregory made a fried egg sandwich and then walked up to the big house to check on Sherlock. To his frustration the nurse was on guard outside Sherlock’s room, apparently the patient wasn’t to be disturbed.

“He's still sleeping”

“Oh, is that normal?”

“It is when you're taking what he's taking”

Disappointed but resigned he asked her “Could you tell him Gregory was here?”

The nurse’s reply was blunt “I could tell him the pope was here, but it wouldn’t register”

Gregory decided there was nothing for it; he fired off a quick text Molly, his friend at his old college, to check she was there and fetching his wallet and his camera he walked out to the main road to catch a bus into Brighton.

******

Molly was delighted to see him, and Gregory her. Unlike his father she knew how to Skype so she wasn’t so surprised by his changed appearance although she squealed and said that he looked even better in the flesh.

She made them coffee and Gregory produced the doughnuts he’d bought on the way in and they spent a good while catching up on college gossip before Molly sighed and said she needed to get back to work. She gave him a quick rundown on a couple of new programmes on the college computer and then parked him over in one corner where he was unlikely to be noticed.

“I don’t expect you’ll be disturbed. It’s virtually the end of term, the A level students have gone and the first year HND are on a field trip”

Gregory spent a couple of hours playing with his photographs and using the college’s excellent facilities. He enjoyed toying with light and shade, cutting and cropping and previewing what the images would look like printed on the college’s latest equipment. He decided to take the opportunity to print one or two of his most recent pictures of Montreal, the ones he hadn’t had a chance to print while he was there, to make a montage for his room at home.

Molly stopped by once or twice, between dealing with other student’s enquiries, to comment on his work and make suggestions on the format. She was impressed by how much his technique had come on. She came by again just has he had finished adding a daylight tint to the last of the cottage interiors and clicked on the next image, that of Mycroft, which appeared on the screen.

“And who’s this? Not the world’s only living consulting detective that’s for sure”

For some quite inexplicable reason Gregory found himself blushing, furiously.

“Oh so it must be the mysterious Louis then, he’s quite a dish”

“No, not Louis, that’s Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock’s older brother”

“Really?” Molly took a closer look “they’re not very alike. How do you happen to have his photo?”

Gregory filled her in about his day out, Mycroft, the helicopter, the plane, the cottage and the island but for some reason he couldn’t quite understand he omitted the disagreement and the beach barbeque.

“So” Molly said in disbelief. “So let me get this right…Sherlock’s elder brother who we know to be as rich as Creosus wants to offload an island, so instead of delegating this to some or other minion to see to he takes a day out of running the country just to get some photographs for the estate agents, and instead of getting Annie Leibovitz or whoever to take the set he asks the unqualified son of his chauffer to take a few snaps. Gregory Lestrade, what are you not telling me?”

When Gregory didn’t answer Molly said four words that brook no argument “You, me, pub, later” and went back to work.

Gregory turned his attention to the photographs of the island, rather disturbed to see quite how many he had taken featured Mycroft. He came to one had taken on their walk, a full length study of the man. Feeling fed up with the whole situation he set to work on the photo, adding little red horns and a forked tail, editing out the umbrella and putting a trident in its place. He was quite pleased with the result, and then startled himself by noticing how well the horns looked with Mycroft’s colouring.

******

Mycroft’s day was not going well. He was frustrated at his failure to resolve the Gregory situation which meant that his campaign would have to be extended over the next few days and he really didn’t have the time. All he had to do was seduce one not very significant young man, how difficult could that be? His brother seemed to be able to do it with two glasses of champagne and some Cole Porter and Sherlock wasn’t even the smart one. The whole business was taking up too much space in his consciousness and impacting on his concentration, something that never, ever happened to him

He’d nearly caused an international incident by discussing the wrong Macedonia with the Greek ambassador; he’d reduced the President of the Board of Trade to a gibbering wreck and the Indian High Commissioner to tears. He’d slammed a door at the Diogenes Club so loudly that a waiter had dropped the 1952 reserve sherry decanter and one of the senior members had suffered a transient ischaemic attack. At this rate he could easily be barred from his own club.

Thank God for Anthea.

“You are aware of Sìthichean, the Island we own in the Outer Hebrides?”

“I am”

Mycroft paused momentarily distracted again. Impossible but he had to ask.

“Have you ever heard me referred to as the world's only living heart donor?”

The usually poker faced Anthea raised her hand to her mouth to stifle a laugh. Exasperated Mycroft returned to his initial enquiry.

“Who’s our contact at Holyrood? Could you sound them out see if there's any advantage to be gained by setting up a residents’ cooperative to buy us out”

“If there isn't?”

“Then forget it”

“Very well”

“And could you get someone to get hold of two tickets for tomorrow night... for whatever West End show nobody can get tickets for…And a table at the Criterion for drinks”

“For whom?” “Anthea raised an eyebrow.

“Me”

Anthea raised the other eyebrow, Mycroft duly noted. “I know. I seldom go to the theatre”

“Seldom?”

“You wouldn’t describe me as a theatre buff”

“Buff?”

Her boss had obviously taken leave of his senses but Anthea decided to humour him “The most difficult tickets will be for a musical…”

“Fine”

“That means that the actors, periodically... will dance about and burst into song”

“Fine”

“Far be it for me to presume, but you may remember the occasion on which you accompanied Mrs Holmes to a performance of Les Misérables”

Mycroft blanched; the sacrifices he made for his country!

“I appreciate your concern Anthea but there’s a job to be done, please see to the tickets... And forget the thing about the political advantage. Tell Ms Sturgeon I want the island to go to a cooperative”

******

Molly finished work at five and promptly marched Gregory to the nearest pub. Armed with a pint and a vodka and tonic she set to work.

“Ok, spill the beans”

Gregory took a large swill of his beer and then another. There was no way Molly was going to let him off the hook. Slowly he related everything that had happened since he’d landed back in England, the lift from Brighton, the party, the dance with Sherlock, and the promise of more which had been aborted by Sherlock’s accident, the trip to Scotland, though again he didn’t tell Molly the whole story, leaving out the conversation with Mycroft in the orangery.

“Gregory Lestrade! You tart! You snogged Sherlock Holmes and him practically a married man”

“I couldn’t help myself; he was there, looking fantastic and finally interested in me”

“Greg, I don’t want to be cruel, but the dictionary definition of commitment-phobe is Sherlock Holmes. He’s a serial shagger, an exponent of the four Fs, except he wouldn’t even give you a meal! Goodness knows how this John Watson has got him to settle down, but he has. I’m sorry if I sound unkind but in twenty-four hours he’d have been back to not remembering your name, and then where would you be?”

Gregory sighed, and downed the rest of his pint. “You don’t know that, Molly”

“I think you do though”

Molly left that one to sink in, and went to the bar; on her return she had more questions for her friend.

“It doesn’t make sense. Mycroft Holmes is a wealthy and powerful man, he probably has people to tie his shoelaces and lick his stamps. I saw the pictures you took of that cottage; it looks like something out of a magazine. If he can arrange that at a moment’s notice he certainly doesn’t need to supervise a photographer, if he really wanted you and only you to do it, why didn’t he send someone with you?”

Gregory thought Molly had a good point “I think there something else going on”

“I’m sure there is” Molly agreed “Why go to all that bother to take you all that way to Scotland just to keep you out of Sherlock’s way. Why not just offer you fifty grand to go back to Canada?”

Gregory looked sheepish and confessed to a little more of his dealings with Mycroft, at which point Molly squealed so loudly that a man at the next table spilt his pint.

By the third round Gregory had succumbed and told Molly everything, and Molly, a complete lightweight when it came to alcohol, was becoming more vociferous in her opinions on the Holmes and their behaviour.

“If you’re right and Sherlock wouldn’t remember me the day after, why does Mycroft think I’m such a threat?”

In a flash Molly replied “I know what the answer is. Mr High and Mighty thinks that Sherlock would chose you over John Watson because that’s what he would do”

Gregory sobered up instantly. “Don’t even joke about it, please”

“Why not? You’re a good looking guy and he’s human, isn’t he?”

“No, Molly he’s not, he’s Mycroft Holmes”

“Well I still think I am right, and you could do much worse” Molly picked up the folder of photographs on the seat between them and took out one of Mycroft, unfortunately the one Gregory had doctored. “He’s handsome, powerful and rich, and he remembers your name. A significant improvement on that floppy haired arrogant sod you’ve been mooning over for ever who didn’t even acknowledge you existed until two days ago”

“You don’t know him Mols, he doesn’t do relationships, I don’t even think he does sex.” Gregory took the photograph from her “I suppose he is a bit of all right”

“Well I wouldn’t say no!”

“Molly Hooper! You tart!

“Why not, there’s a lot to be said for a good looking man who knows how to dress”

“What? Even with the horns and a tail?”

Molly took the photo back and looked at it again and then at Gregory.

“Especially with the horns and the tail!”

******

“It's open”

“Where were you? In town?”

“At the college, Molly let me use the editing suite and then we went for a drink.”

“… and yesterday?”

“On an island off the coast of Scotland”

“Sìthichean? The Holmes’ place?”

“That’s the one. Mycroft wanted me to take some pictures”

“Mycroft did?”

“I love so many things about you, Dad. But you know what I love best of all? You became a chauffeur because you wanted to have time to read. All my life, I've pictured you... sitting in the front seat of a long succession of cars... waiting for the Holmes and reading.

“We had griddled langoustines. Mycroft cooked them…”

Tom Lestrade waited, he was more uneasy about this turn of events than he had been throughout the whole of the crush on Sherlock.

“I used to be so afraid of him”

“Very wise”

“Dad…What was Mycroft like as a child?”

“Fatter”

******

Tucked up in bed Gregory took a final look through the photographs he’d taken of the Island, lingering over the one of Mycroft in the cottage.

He had to admit Molly was right; there was just something about a well-made Englishman in a three piece suit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ms Sturgeon is a reference to the leader of the Scottish Government which is based at Holyrood


	10. Chapter 10

Gregory had hoped that Mycroft would have forgotten all about the photographs and his arrangement to take them into the city but he was woken promptly at eight o’clock by Anthea reminding him of his appointment and confirming the address.

He carried out his morning routine which now included a trip to Sherlock’s room. To Gregory’s concern Sherlock was still out for the count, guarded ferociously by his nurse. Gregory was beginning to be suspicious.

“Are you sure this is normal?”

The nurse was rather put out. “He wakes up from time to time”

“Has he asked for anyone?”

“Burke and Hare”

“I have to go into London, but I'll be back by seven. Could you tell him?”

“I could try, though I’m not saying he’ll take it in”

******

As the train rolled through the Surrey countryside into London Gregory settled down to some serious thinking. He might be almost twenty-one but somewhere inside there was still the grieving teenager who had fallen unrequitedly in love with an older man. Moving continents had helped, as had the fling with Louis, and once it had seemed that the object of his affection was unequivocally unobtainable Gregory had determined to pull himself together and get over it.

The party, the song and the dance with Sherlock had thrown all his determination to the wind, but he knew that however marvellous that had been, it was as Sally had said to him over a year ago, just, an illusion. Sherlock had definitely been interested, he’d seen it (hell, he’d felt it) but it was no more than Sherlock’s usual reflex action when faced with a handsome face and a new challenge, it could have been any guy at the party, it just happened to have been someone who had been in love with him for years.

The truth was Sherlock Holmes’s notoriously low boredom threshold had been breached by a short, stroppy looking ex-army doctor (Gregory had googled Dr Watson and didn’t think much of him), and while his eye might wander it was no more than a last bid for freedom from a wild animal that had finally been domesticated.

Gregory had to concede that Molly was right about Sherlock but that didn’t mean she was right about his brother. That was inconceivable.

So having reached this sad but inevitable conclusion Gregory turned his mind to his next dilemma. To stay in England or move to France?

******

Gregory took the tube to the address Anthea had given him which turned out to be a Georgian building with imposing ionic columns framing the doorway. Manning up, Gregory climbed the steps to the portico and then through the revolving doors. It was eerily quiet. He approached the first person he saw.

“E...excuse me”

The man looked askance and put his finger to his lips “Shhhhh”

Instinctively Gregory whispered “I’m looking for Mycroft Holmes”

Silently the man pointed at a passage to the left. Gregory set off in that direction, stopping at the first room he came to, which contained a number of leathery old-fashioned wing chairs and a number of leathery old-fashioned gentlemen.

Gregory walked over to the one nearest to him, half obscured by the Daily Telegraph and asked him “Mycroft Holmes? Would you happen to know if he’s around at all?”

The man shook his newspaper at him, but didn’t respond. Gregory felt rather than saw a wave of disapproval travel his direction. He wondered if the old man was deaf and raised his voice slightly. “Can you hear me? Mycroft Holmes”

The man became even more agitated but didn’t reply.

Gregory abandoned his attempt presuming some form of dementia in the man and spoke aloud to the room.

“Mycroft Holmes? Anyone?”

In one concerted movement every person in the room turned away from him. Gregory began to get angry in the face of such rudeness.

“Does anyone at all know where Mycroft Holmes is? I’ve been asked to meet him here”

There’s still no reply but from the corner of his eye Gregory spots one of the elderly occupants of the room lift his walking stick and push on a button on the nearby wall. In the distance he can hear a bell ring but other than that no-one acknowledges his presence. Gregory’s annoyance began to be focused on Mycroft Holmes, typical arrogance summoning him to London and not being there to receive him.

He raised his voice further, letting his irritation show “Am I invisible? Can you actually see me?”

Just then two men eccentrically dressed in frock coats, white gloves and overshoes arrived either side of him, took hold of his arms and firmly frogmarched him out of the room. As Gregory started to protest one of the men clamped his hand over Gregory’s mouth to silence him.

Gregory wondered if he was being arrested, or if he’d ever be seen again, so he was relieved to be deposited into a large anteroom containing a familiar face. It was Anthea, Mycroft Holmes right hand woman who he knew from her visits to the Holmes’ mansion. Anthea sprung up from her desk and knocked on the door behind her before opening it and announcing him.

“Gregory Lestrade”

Mycroft rose from his seat behind the largest desk Gregory had ever seen, it was flanked by two ancient suits of armour and was frankly terrifying. Gregory assumed that was the desired effect.

“Gregory, excellent” Mycroft abandoned his desk and walked over to him, the sheer size of the office meant that it took a while. “Do sit down” Mycroft indicated an ugly looking armchair “Make yourself comfortable”

Gregory sat down and surveyed his surroundings and allowed it was something else. “Wow. This is impressive”

Mycroft took the seat opposite him “This is where I do that real work in the real world... instead of living”

“You remembered”

“It’s not something I have heard before. Would you like a drink, tea, coffee, something stronger?”

“I’m fine thank you. What the hell was going on out there? Are they all mutes or too up themselves to speak to a pleb like me?”

“They’re not permitted to speak to anyone, plebeian or patrician”

“That’s bizarre”

“It is tradition, Gregory. Our traditions define us”

“So total silence is traditional, is it? You can’t even say, pass the sugar”

“Three-quarters of the diplomatic service and half the government front bench all sharing one tea trolley. It’s for the best, believe me”

Mycroft looked thoughtful for a moment. “We don’t want to risk a repeat of 1972. But the rules don’t apply in here”

“You wanted to see the photographs” Gregory produced the envelope from his bag and handed it to Mycroft who immediately started to look through them.

“Some of these are very good”

“Don't sound so surprised”

“I'm not… This is an unusual view of the island” Mycroft flashed a picture taken from the top of Mount Royal.

“Well... you said you wanted it to look bigger”

Mycroft then flicked through a couple more, of Mike and Sally, and of Louis looking gorgeous as ever. His eyes rested on the photo of Louis for a fraction longer than the others, noting the brown curly hair, so it appeared Gregory had a type. Bugger.

“Sorry. No, you have…” Gregory quickly took another packet of photographs out of his rucksack and handed them to Mycroft while reclaiming his own.

Mycroft started to go through the photographs, the cottage, the dining table laden with food, the tastefully furnished bedrooms, and the sea views. He paused when he came to the photo of himself and looked at it thoughtfully.

“You're very photogenic” Gregory wanted to fill the silence but instinctively told the truth.

“That’s because I'm handsome”

“No, that's not it”

“Not as handsome as Sherlock, though”

“Nobody's as handsome as Sherlock... not even Sherlock”

“I wouldn’t tell him that till he's fully recovered… and what is this?”

Mycroft’s perusal of the photographs had reached the one Gregory had doctored to include the devil’s horns and tail. He had meant to give it to Molly as she was so taken with it but after four pints he’d forgotten.

Hugely embarrassed Gregory tried to take the photo from him, but Mycroft held it out of reach.

“So this is what you think of me is it? The devil incarnate!”

Gregory thought that the picture gave Mycroft a charming impish look but that was the last thing he would admit.

“I was just playing around on the computer, it wasn’t serious”

“Ah but I suspect your subconscious was at work here”

Gregory inwardly cursed himself, Molly and the wretched photograph, why hadn’t he checked the packet before he’d handed the evidence to Mycroft?

“It wasn’t meant to be taken seriously” Gregory repeated again trying to dig his way out of the hole he was in, but Mycroft looked genuinely upset, just over a photograph so he added in a rush. “My friend thinks you’re hot”

Mycroft expression changed to startled. “Your friend thinks I’m what?”

“You know…hot”

“I’m sorry I don’t. Perhaps you could enlighten me”

Gregory realised Mycroft was playing with him but not in a cruel way.

“You're teasing me”

“It's my turn… so your friend thinks I’m hot. Tell me, why am I entertaining you and not her?”

Gregory didn’t stop to ask how Mycroft knew the friend was female. He was getting used to the man’s omnipotence. He felt giddy, like he had stepped through the looking glass into a parallel universe where it was normal to exchange flirtatious banter with the most powerful man in the country. It was weird and the only thing to do was pray for it to stop.

Fortunately his prayers were answered as the disembodied voice of Anthea came over the intercom. “I have Ms Sturgeon on line one”

“Excuse me, I have to take this”

“Nicola…excellent…of course… I’m sure that would do very well… Exactly… private ownership of public property…we’re not living in the dark ages… I’ll set my man on to it and he’ll be in touch…my pleasure. Goodbye”

Mycroft disconnected from the call and turned his attention back to Gregory. All hint of flirting gone and Mycroft back to his cool, commanding self. “Are you sure I can't get you anything? How about theatre tickets?”

“Theatre tickets?”

“I have tickets for _Hamilton_ this evening, I wondered if you would care to join me? I thought I might take my first step towards… What were you talking about yesterday? Life in all its fullness, getting the balance right? Knowing when to quit?

Mycroft noted with concern that his powers of deduction were not operating at full strength; he couldn’t tell if Gregory’s expression meant that he was shocked, appalled or horrified.

“Forget it, it’s a bad idea”

Gregory’s smiled his beautiful smile which showed his excellent teeth and lit up his face, Mycroft felt something almost physical…relief?

“No, it's a good idea. Except…”

“What?”

“Well gay men and musicals, it is a bit of a cliché… let’s do dinner instead”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Burke and Hare were murdering grave robbers in 19th century Scotland  
> In the film Sabrina's Parisian love interest has brown curly hair not unlike Sherlock's (a coincidence - thanks to a lazy universe)


	11. Chapter 11

Mycroft was exceedingly pleased with Gregory’s suggestion, not only did it excuse him from three hours of misery while he was forced to watch, in his opinion, people of inferior intellect who were unable to engage in a gainful occupation, sing and dance about, but he was slightly more at home with wining and dining as a seduction technique – though in all honesty there was nothing about the situation that he truly comfortable with. He was still regretting not abducting Gregory in the first place despite the risk of Sherlock riding to his rescue.

He paged through to Anthea and began deliberating between The Connaught and The Dorchester for dinner, his name carried sufficient weight that a table would present no problem at either establishment and he could always send out for a tie for Gregory. Just as he had decided on The Connaught he felt a hand on his arm. It was Gregory.

“No my suggestion, my choice, my treat”

Mycroft was aghast, he easily deduced the kind of place that Gregory would usually frequent for dinner and estimated that the younger man would be prepared to spend between ten and fifteen pounds on the whole meal, maybe twenty in central London. Heaven knows what Gregory’s treat would involve.

“There’s a place that was recommended to me when I was in Montreal if I was homesick for Canada, this would be a good chance to try it. It’s just off The Strand”

Mycroft supposed it would be too much to hope it was the Savoy. Gregory was consulting his phone.

“It’s a short walk from Charing Cross station.”

The tube? Walk? Mycroft gave an involuntary shudder. It was early evening in London, all those people. That was too much to expect of anyone.

“I’ll have a car brought round”

It was Gregory’s turn to stand firm, though it was only a partial victory. The compromise was to take a taxi. Gregory was impressed with the speed Mycroft secured a cab in the rush hour without it occurring to him that it was one of the British Government’s private fleet.

The cab deposited them outside a small café bar called The _Gravy Train_. It had a homely rustic feel, and while busy was not too crowded. They were shown to a corner booth where Mycroft could at least hear himself think, while he perused the menu and surveyed the other diners and tried not to look appalled. He deduced a number of Canadian exchange students, one or two visiting sporting types and a number of ex-pats now working in the city. Mycroft hadn’t felt so out of place since his one and only attempt to fraternise with his fellow undergraduates at Cambridge, but then he had been four years younger than most of them.

“You need to try this” Gregory pointed at something on the menu “It is a Quebecois speciality, poutine.”

“Putin??” Mycroft couldn’t fathom why the Canadians had chosen to name a national dish after the president of their closest enemy.

“That’s funny, but it is pronounced poo-teen”

“Perhaps I won’t try that pronunciation on my next conference call; I wouldn’t want to cause an incident”

Gregory was reminded of just who he was dining with, and was relieved when a waiter arrived to take their order and brought them a beer.

“So you ate this all the time in Montreal”

“Not at all, Montreal, especially Old-Montreal is a great place and has a really European feel to it. Saint-Paul Street has tons of restaurants, bars, souvenir shops and art galleries. Then there’s Mile End which you could call Montreal’s Soho; fantastic shops, boutiques, you name it, and relatively cheap compared to London or Paris”

“You loved it, yet you didn’t stay?”

“I’m an only child, my dad’s a widower, I was never going to settle three thousand miles away”

Mycroft was about to ask where Gregory would settle when the waiter brought the poutine and their conversation came to a halt.

They ate in silence for a while, until Gregory, observing Mycroft for signs of distaste had to ask.

“I suppose it’s not what you’re used to?”

Mycroft who hadn’t eaten chips since the last millennium was surprised to find he was enjoying himself immensely. He knew he would regret it the next time he got on the scales but until then… cheese, chips and gravy, who would have thought it would be such a delicious combination.

“It’s very good, interesting. I’m just glad I made that contribution to the UCH Coronary unit”

“Just wait until we try the dessert!”

They both laughed and then Mycroft sighed “You’ll be the death of me”

Gregory turned serious then. “May I ask you something?”

“Of course”

“That call you took, while we were looking at the photographs. Was it _the_ Nicola Sturgeon?”

“Do you know any other Nicola Sturgeons?”

“The Scottish First Minister?”

“The same”

Gregory thought for a minute, wondering how far he could go with this line of questioning. He took a deep breath and started again.

“It sounded like you were talking about the island, Sìthichean”

“We were”

“What did you mean, about private ownership and we’re not living in the dark ages”

“Negotiations have begun with the Scottish Land Commission for a sale to the Islanders”

“You mean you’re going to let them buy it?”

“I’m going to give them first refusal. The Land Commission will advise them, help with the legal side, and raising the funds”

Gregory couldn’t speak; the thought that Mycroft had listened to him, and taken on board what he said was beyond comprehension.

Mycroft read his mind. “Yes, you can be very persuasive; you should try a career in politics”

Gregory’s groaned. “Don’t mention the C word; I reckon I have until the end of the week before Dad starts on at me about finding a job”

At that point the waiter cleared their plates and brought dessert, buttermilk pancakes and maple syrup. It was Mycroft’s turn to groan though he tucked in all the same.

“Tell me about Paris”

“Both my parents came from Paris originally, so we would always go to stay with my grandparents every Christmas and for two weeks in the summer. Of course that’s the worst time to visit, anyone with any sense abandons the city to the tourists, but only the Parisians know that. I never appreciated it when I was younger; I wanted to go to Cornwall, or Wales, or Ibiza, the places my school friends went.

“We used to walk everywhere in Paris, that’s how I remembered it, Maman dragging me from Montmartre to the centre of the town and me wanting to be anywhere but there.

“Along the Seine, there's a four-mile walk that goes from Isle Saint Germain to the Pont d'Austerlitz. It takes you past all the bridges of Paris, all twenty-three of them, now every time I’m in Paris I do that walk in memory of my mother and wish she was there with me, I could really do with her advice but I have to listen to the river instead”

“And what advice does it give you?”

“That's between me and the river… perhaps that’s why I am thinking I ought to go to Paris. To ask the river what I should do… I’m sure that you think I’m ridiculous”

“Not at all, listening to you talk makes me… I don’t know, makes wonder if…”

“What?”

“You’re not even twenty-one and you’ve had all these experiences, lived in different places… whereas I…”

Gregory waited patiently; it appeared Mycroft was on the edge of some serious revelation.

“I don't know… my father died when I was thirteen, suddenly I was the man of the house, Sherlock was a child someone had to hold things together. At fifteen I went to university, I was always precocious, the academic study was fine but the social side of college life was denied me, I couldn’t even have a drink in the bar. I graduated at nineteen, and went straight to the foreign office, my Uncle Rudi saw to that and I have been steadily climbing the ladder of preferment ever since.

“But something's different. I feel different. I love what I do, I love being in the thick of things, people rely on me… but... lately I have been wondering... everything I have sacrificed, friendship, love, adventure, what if one day I wake up and regret it. I’ll give you an example. I must have visited Paris a hundred times in the last twelve years but I have never been inside Notre Dame and had no idea there were twenty-three bridges over the Seine. What would be like... to spend some time in a place that I love like you have... and not just a few days... but for a real change. Actually, I think I've been thinking about it for a long time. I just…I just didn't know it until... you”

“What exactly are you saying, Mycroft?”

“I'm not sure” Mycroft shook his head looking suddenly very weary and Gregory felt his heart go out to him. “I serve my country, as my father did, and his father before him, generations of Holmes, as far back as you can go, all faithful servants of this nation. My whole life, it’s like I've been…” Mycroft voice had roughened, he sounded almost angry at some invisible force “I never had a choice, the path gets deeper, more familiar… until there’s no way back”

“But… You're not thinking about chucking it all in”

“No, you're probably right. How could I be? Am I a lost cause, then?”

“I don't like to think of anyone as a lost cause”

But lost cause or not, Gregory had an overwhelming urge to give the older man a hug and somehow make him smile again. It was a scary thought and he quickly changed the subject.

“What time is it?”

“It’s a quarter to ten”

Gregory started, had they really been sat there for three hours? “I forgot. I told the nurse to tell Sherlock I'd look in on him”

“He's probably sleeping”

“Ok”

Mycroft decided to quit while he was ahead.

“We can go, if you like”

“No, you're right”

“Let’s get the bill” Mycroft signalled to the waiter.

“My treat, remember”

“Of course, thank you”

******

Outside the restaurant Gregory started to look for a taxi but Mycroft, suddenly unwilling to end the evening took him by the arm.

“Come on. Let's walk down the Strand for a little while. Help me digest all those carbs!”

Gregory laughed and gently detached his arm from Mycroft’s hold but didn’t increase the distance between them.

“Is there anything you wouldn't like about living Paris?”

“It is a while since I was there but I remember how expensive everything was, especially with a strong euro”

“Well, I would say Je ne fais que regarder”

“I’m only looking – excellent”

“Then I would say C'est ce que je veux''

“This is what I want – your accent is very good”

“Thank you”

Mycroft stopped abruptly in the street and turned to face Gregory. Gregory stopped too, caught like a rabbit in the headlights of Mycroft’s determined stare.

“But what should say is Je regarde ce que je veux”

Gregory said nothing.

“Aren’t you going to translate for me?”

“I don’t remember” Gregory said crossly as he moved over to the kerb and stuck his arm out to a passing cab.


	12. Chapter 12

It was late but not too late to get a train back to Brighton but Mycroft insisted on collecting a car from the Diogenes Club and driving Gregory home. They passed the journey in awkward silence, Gregory closed his eyes and feigned sleep but instead all he saw was those intense blue eyes and Mycroft saying “I’m looking at what I want”. He was way out of his depth, perhaps he should go to Paris and consult with the river, at least he wouldn’t have to deal with either of the Holmes brothers there.

As if on cue, Sherlock was waiting for them by the garages when they arrived back at the Holmes estate.

“Hi”

Mycroft spoke first saying good evening to his brother before Gregory asked how he was feeling.

“Better. I felt like getting out of bed for a while” Both Mycroft and Gregory recognised the code for _I wanted a cigarette_ and inadvertently smiled at each other before quickly looking away.

“Anthea says you two went to the theatre?”

“Just dinner”

“Canadian… would you believe that’s a cuisine! What’s the verdict from Dr Sawyer?”

“Good. On the mend”

Mycroft was reluctant to leave Sherlock and Gregory together but he realised that however long he stood there playing gooseberry he would have to concede defeat eventually. Probably best to go before he made a complete fool of himself.

“Thank you for the photographs and the pleasant evening. It's rather late to go back to London. I think I'll sleep out here, Good night to you both”

“Goodnight Mycroft”

Sherlock immediately turned to Gregory “I hope my odious brother hasn’t been boring you to death”

Gregory answered him distractedly; he found to his annoyance that if he looked slightly to the right of Sherlock’s shoulder he could watch Mycroft walking up to the house. “No, it’s been fine really”

“I've been thinking about you“

“Have you? What were you thinking?”

“I think we never had that drink in the orangery.”

“We never did. You sent Mycroft“

“My apologies” Sherlock gave his best rueful look. It never failed.

“Sherlock, what's going to happen?”

Sherlock wasn’t going to ignore an opener like that.

“I could rustle us up some champagne, couple of paper cups. I'm done with glasses. We could hobble down to the orangery and pick right back up”

“I meant after that”

Better and better Sherlock thought, who’d have guessed it.

“After that? Well I don't know… that’s up to you”

“Is it?”

“Well, I can think of a few things if you are stuck for ideas. Why don’t we start with the champagne and take it from there”

“Tomorrow, I really think you should rest now” Gregory leaned forward to give Sherlock a brief kiss, completely unaware that Mycroft was watching them on the CCTV. He’d aimed for the cheek but Sherlock had moved at the last minute and the kiss had landed on his lips. Gregory smiled, Sherlock was nothing if not consistent, so he said firmly. “Good night, Sherlock”

******

Gregory tiptoed passed the living room where he could hear his father and Martha in conversation and stealthily opened his bedroom door; he couldn’t face another interrogation on his whereabouts. He might possibly have pulled the wool over his father’s eyes but there was no fooling Mrs Hudson.

He kicked off his shoes and flopped down on to his bed. In a minute he’d need to get undressed and use the bathroom but his head was spinning and this time it wasn’t down to alcohol.

His life had been completely turned upside down. Two days ago he would never have passed up the opportunity to drink champagne with Sherlock and everything that implied, it was the stuff of his wildest dreams, but now the last thing he wanted was to be another notch on Sherlock’s bedpost.

Instead he couldn’t stop thinking about the conundrum that was Mycroft Holmes; it was as if the man was two completely different people. On the one hand there was the bureaucrat who with one snap of his fingers could bring governments to heel, on the other there was the lonely, unhappy child who had to grow up too soon. There was the smooth operator that ran the country behind the scenes contrasting with caring politician who allowed himself to be influenced by the passionate arguments of a boy hardly out of his teens. He was ferociously intelligent, and had a reputation as a ruthless manipulator but apparently was also capable of being funny, thoughtful and kind. The side that nobody knew was there except perhaps his mother. So who was the real Mycroft Holmes?

Gregory heard Mrs Hudson leave and his father turn in for the night. He nipped to the bathroom and brushed his teeth before getting undressed and into bed himself. Despite being tired he rather thought he wouldn’t get much sleep tonight. He lay down and returned to thinking about Mycroft.

He was certainly very handsome, Gregory had never considered Mycroft’s looks, too dazzled by Sherlock’s beauty to notice his brother but now that he had it was like he couldn’t find the off switch. There was something solid about Mycroft compared with Louis’ youth and Sherlock’s wraith like slenderness, he wasn’t fat, far from it but he was definitely a man not a boy and Gregory suddenly realised how very attractive that was. Perhaps that was what had drawn Sherlock to Dr Watson, he could appreciate that now.

There was a red haired gene in there somewhere, probably down to the Scottish ancestry. Gregory wondered if there were freckles; he came to the conclusion he was partial to a freckle or two. From there it was a short hop to wondering what it would be like to peel Mycroft out of his three piece suits and reveal that alabaster skin in all its glory.

What would it be like to go to bed with Mycroft, to be the object of all that focus and attention, and in turn to find a chink in that controlled façade and take him apart?

Damn! He was never going to get to sleep at this rate. Gregory reached down and took himself in hand. What would it be like to be the one making Mycroft Holmes come apart?

******

“Good morning, sir. How was the theatre?” Mycroft had been at his desk for a couple of hours when his assistant arrived for work.

“Come in, Anthea” The tone of his voice told her everything she needed to know.

“Really? That bad?”

“I want you to get me two tickets on Air France to Paris. One in my name and one in the name of Gregory Lestrade. That will be all”

“What day are we flying?”

“Tomorrow”

Anthea consulted her phone. “Patrick Watson’s requested a video conference at eleven. I am using the word requested advisedly”

“Am I available?”

“I could move the Hungarian Ambassador”

“Do it, and ask my mother to dial in too”

******

Mycroft was slightly late joining the call; he interrupted his mother and Ingrid Watson discussing invitations, something about taupe or buff. He supressed his irritation, at least it sounded as if the wedding was still on. Mycroft cut to the chase.

“What’s the problem, Patrick?”

“No problem from our point of view” Patrick Watson paused for effect then added “I feel like a… what's that word? When a lot of guys are after you”

“Whore”

Mycroft heard his mother’s sharp intake of breath but Patrick only smiled.

“I was thinking more _debutante_. Somebody else wants to be in bed with Watson Electronics”

Mycroft didn’t grace this with a reply, he was sick of the whole situation and he wasn’t certain he could keep that out of his voice. Fortunately Mummy came to his rescue.

“Well, how flattering for you, Patrick”

Mycroft recovered sufficiently to ask “How did you leave it?

“I told them we're practically family, you and I. I couldn't possibly entertain their offer at this time”

“I’m pleased you think so”.

“But John came home last night. He called Sherlock. We got the impression…”

Ingrid Watson chipped in “You. You got the impression”

“I got the impression that he wasn't as anxious as he should be... to see him”

Mummy sprang to her baby’s defence “But he's not himself, Patrick. He's been injured. He's on very heavy medication. He wants to be perfect before he sees John again”

“That's what I thought”

******

Gregory woke late to the sound of his mobile; the number was withheld so he didn’t answer it. He was too young for PPI and hadn’t had an accident in the last three years.

Except the phone rang again, and then once more. Gregory groan, whoever it was wasn’t going away.

“Hello?”

“Good morning”

“Mycroft” Gregory couldn’t help smiling, but then blushed as he remembered what he and Mycroft had got up to in his dreams.

“Listen, would you mind another trip into the city? I've got some business that I'd like to discuss with you”

“Business?” Gregory tried not to sound too disappointed, back to reality then, no more jaunts in the jet.

“Yes. I was wondering if you would be able to meet me here this afternoon.”

“I don't know. There's something I ought to do” Like banish all thoughts of Mycroft for a start.

“It would mean a great deal to me if you could. I can arrange a ticket for you to collect at Brighton station, or send the car to bring you in”

Horrified at the thought of his father being asked to drive him to London, Gregory quickly agreed to come in by train, though once Mycroft had rung off he was annoyed that he had caved so easily.

Mycroft’s direct line rang again the instant he disconnected, it was Mummy.

“That little pixie was making a veiled threat”

“There was no veil”

“Should we do something?”

“It's under control. I'm going to Paris tomorrow”

“What?”

“It's a long story”

“I like long stories”

“You won't like this one”

“Try me”

“Things have been progressing with Gregory. We've bonded. We've been confiding in each other. Last night, over a handful of chips... I told him I thought my life was in need of some radical changes. I hinted I was thinking about getting away... maybe even moving to Paris. He thought that was a great idea”

“And he believed you?”

“More than that. I think I can persuade him to go with me”

“How do you know?”

“The same way I knew Hillary Clinton would never be President... that the British people would vote for Brexit... that the Jersey Shore franchise would go worldwide. I just know. So here's the way it'll play out. Gregory will go to Paris with me. A wiser Sherlock will return to John. Patrick Watson will be family and I’ll come back from Paris to seal the deal”

“What happens to Gregory?”

“He grows up”

“You're going to ditch him? My goodness”

“How did you think this was going to pan out, Mother? Did you think there was some sweet way to do it?”

“I don't know what I thought. I just didn't want Gregory to be…”

“What? Unhappy? You were a special agent in the height of the cold war, Mother. Unhappy is getting off lightly compared with what you were involved in then”

“I think I'm getting old. I feel terrible about this”

“Take a pill”

“Watch it. I'm still your mother”

“And you taught me everything I know”

“I didn't teach you this. Excuse me. I have some calls to make”


	13. Chapter 13

Gregory took his time getting ready; he fussed with his clothes and his hair, which was ridiculous it wasn’t as if it was a date. He finally set off to catch the bus to the station a couple of hours after Mycroft had phoned. Once he arrived in London Gregory was reluctant to head straight for the Diogenes Club, he felt an unease that he couldn’t just put down to embarrassment. He took a detour via the National Portrait Gallery and wandered idly through the photographs collection before he realised it was nearly five o’clock and he couldn’t postpone the inevitable any longer. He thought about heading home but dismissed this as cowardly. Though at this point Mycroft Holmes was the last person on earth he wanted to spend time with he knew he couldn’t avoid him forever.

He negotiated the minefield of the Diogenes Club, remembering the way to Mycroft’s suite from the day before, although when he reached the door he hesitated again. Unfortunately Anthea was on the lookout and spotted him lurking in the corridor.

“Mr Lestrade. He was expecting you much earlier. I'll let him know that you're here”

“Maybe this isn't such a good idea… Don't tell him I'm here”

“It’s my job to tell him” and with that Anthea opened Mycroft’s office door and said “Gregory Lestrade” leaving him no choice but to go in.

Mycroft was sat at his desk looking serious and tired though no less handsome for it; on hearing Anthea’s announcement he looked up and gave his warm smile, the one Gregory had come to think of as the genuine Mycroft. Gregory felt his heart do a little flip. He was doomed.

Mycroft stood up and walked towards him. “I was beginning to worry”

“Why?”

“I thought you’d got lost. Or maybe you didn’t want to come?”

Gregory cursed the Holmes’ deductive powers, just once it would be nice to be able to have secrets but there was no point in being anything but truthful.

“I've been…I've been wandering around London all afternoon…It's something to do... with maybe... never seeing you again… Which is ridiculous; because we don't… we don't have to… Well, except by accident, and… How could that be a problem?” Hell, Gregory thought, what was it about the Holmes brothers that turned him into an incoherent idiot? At this rate he was going to end up in a home. “If two people…”

He gave it up as a bad job, Mycroft was obviously in charge here, let him do the talking.

A shadow of something appeared to pass over Mycroft’s face, momentarily altering his appearance; he shook it away before he spoke. “Well... what you said… whatever it is… makes what I was going to say... obsolete, I think”

“Obsolete?”

“Irrelevant”

From the moment they had started talking Gregory and Mycroft had gradually been moving closer to each other as if through some invisible force, polar opposites drawn together by a magnetic attraction. They were now standing near enough to be almost touching; Gregory’s pulse was racing with the sheer intensity of it,

“Okay. I like irrelevant”

“Do you?”

When Mycroft spoke Gregory felt his soft breath on his cheek. He was in love with Mycroft consciously, his mind was clouded with emotion and he had the sudden understanding that Mycroft’s was too. That Mycroft wanted this every bit as much as he did, the thought made him giddy.

As if acting independent of his brain his arm reached out so that he could stroke Mycroft’s hair, the darling curl that crowned his high forehead that had been tantalising Gregory for days.

“Who cuts your hair?”

“Tony”

“Tony?”

“Why? You think I should go to your barber?”

“No… it’s perfect… don’t change it. Don’t change a thing”

Mycroft covered Gregory’s hand with his own and pulled it away from his head but didn’t let it go. They stood together without speaking, the air charged around them until Gregory remembered he had unanswered questions.

“So what's irrelevant?”

Mycroft was holding both Gregory’s hands in his now, rubbing his thumbs across the back of his knuckles, the sensation was hypnotic, at the same time both too much and not enough.

Mycroft seemed anxious, nervous, like he had the other morning when he’d asked Gregory to take the photographs, it only added to the tension of the moment.

“I want you to come to Paris”

Gregory smiled, so they were back at the beginning. “You mean go to Paris”

“No, I want you to come to Paris... with me”

“You're really going?” Gregory stared at Mycroft, he appeared sincere but he but he couldn’t be sure.

“It's your fault. You convinced me that there were some things missing in my life”

“Like what?”

“Like a life”

“I didn't think you were listening”

“I was”

“Will you come? Don't say no. Will you?”

“I only just came back to England”

“So? Say yes… now. We can leave tomorrow”

“Tomorrow?” That was crazy, Gregory played for time “I have to talk to Sherlock”

Mycroft nipped that thought in the bud.

“Just come away. He'll get the idea in a week or two”

“You really are formidable, aren't you...In politics…”

“This isn't politics”

“Didn't you once say everything is politics?”

“No, but it sounds like me”

And then Mycroft had bent his head and kissed him. Unlike the kiss in the orangery which had been brusque and unwanted Mycroft’s lips were gentle and questioning, asking to be let in. As Gregory opened his mouth in return he was aware enough to note that Mycroft taste of mint, he had brushed his teeth in anticipation of this event, and the courtesy both moved and terrified him, he was well and truly caught. The kiss deepened and Gregory put his arms around Mycroft to hold him tight and never let him go. So engrossed were they that Anthea’s knock at the door went unnoticed causing them to spring apart like guilty teenagers when she entered.

Anthea’s professional manner kicked in, she behaved as if she’d seen nothing out of the ordinary as she walked over to Mycroft’s desk.

“I did knock. Here are the tickets. And the other things are being taken care of. Good night, Mr Holmes, Mr Lestrade”

Anthea’s interruption had destroyed the mood and they stayed apart. Gregory was curious though and walked over to the desk to see if Anthea had really left what he thought she had. In disbelief he picked up the two Air France tickets for the 13.30 flight from London to Paris the next day, one in his name, one in Mycroft’s. Business class, Mycroft would have to slum it on a short hop.

Gregory was overwhelmed, he couldn’t speak. The lack of response made Mycroft uneasy; to fill the silence he asked “Would you like dinner?” as he closed the distance between them again.

“No”

“I could order in”

“No, not dinner. I’d like…”

Gregory, smiling from ear to ear turned and threw his arms around Mycroft’s neck planting kisses on every bare patch of skin he could find before kissing him firmly and fully on the mouth, and again Mycroft kissed him back. Gregory let his hands fall to Mycroft’s waist, pulling at his shirt so he could get at the pale porcelain skin that had been the focus of his fantasies.

“I don't understand what happened…I hardly know you…”

“Oh, yes, you do”

“I wasn't even interested”

“Thanks”

“I was interested in Sherlock. He was so much what I wanted that I had to escape... and I did, to Canada. And I changed my stupid clothes and I cut my stupid hair... and I came back stupider than ever”

Gregory felt light headed, as if he couldn’t get enough oxygen to his brain. He honestly thought that if he didn’t get Mycroft into bed in the next five minutes he might explode, or have a stroke. He was no longer capable of standing upright.

In fact why were they still upright?

“Where can we go? Is there anywhere we can go?”

“There’s a d...day b…bed” Mycroft stuttered “Through there” pointing to a bookcase that concealed a door.

Trust Mycroft to have a hidden room, thought Gregory as they tried to get to the door without parting; it was bizarre, clumsy and perfect.

Mycroft touched the lever and the door sprung open, revealing the secret chamber, and the chaise lounge within. They stumbled towards it, Gregory first, drawing Mycroft down on top of him.

“You beautiful man, I can’t believe this is actually happening… I am so happy. You have made me so happy”

The shift in Mycroft’s demeanour was so slight that at first Gregory hardly noticed it, but within his embrace the body that had been so warm and pliant became rigid and cold. As Mycroft pulled away there seemed to be a noticeable drop in temperature in the room.

“I can't do this”

“I don’t understand. You can’t do this here? Now?”

Mycroft was regaining control, his breathing evening out. Standing away from Gregory he straightened his tie and tucked his shirt back in, before doing up the buttons of his waistcoat.

“You were right”

“About what?”

“About everything. Everything that mattered. It was all a lie… everything I said to you... from the moment I brought the champagne into the orangery”

Gregory found he had started to shake; he put his head in his hands, perhaps if he couldn’t see Mycroft he could pretend he wasn’t here.

“I don't believe you”

Mycroft’s passionate breathlessness had vanished completely, replaced with the cold officious bureaucrat.

“I was sent to deal with you. I sent myself. And, though I say so myself, I did an excellent job. There was a marriage. There was a government security contract… You got in the way. The plan was to take you to Paris...then leave... withdraw your passport, obstruct your application for a new one… to get you out of the way… not for ever…just long enough”

Gregory wanted to kill him, to beat him to a pulp but he was angrier with himself for falling for the oldest trick in the book.

“Give me a moment?”

“Of course” Mycroft bowed his head slightly and left the room.

Gregor stood up, took several deep breathes and tidied his clothes before following Mycroft into his office. He wouldn’t give Mycroft the satisfaction of seeing him collapse; he had to hold it together until he could get away. But first he had to know.

“What other things are being taken care of?”

“What?”

“Anthea, she said, other things”

“There’s an apartment for you in Paris... and a bank account”

“How much?”

“Five hundred thousand euros”

“Your first offer was better”

“You can have more”

“I don't want more. I don't want any. You went to all that trouble just for me? The helicopter and the jet…”

“It was nothing”

“Was I really so bad for Sherlock, so wrong? The chauffeur's son? Isn't that a thing of the past?”

“It was never about class. It was only about surveillance technology”

“Surveillance technology?”

“It was never personal”

“May I?” Gregory asked, picking up the airline ticket in his name. “Paris is always a good idea. I am always happy there. You would've been too”

“I’ll get you a lift home”

“I'm flying home”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have been led to believe that Mycroft's curl now has its own fan base


	14. Chapter 14

Gregory hardly knew how he’d got home that evening. There was a bus, a train and another bus, but he wouldn’t have been able to tell anyone how he had managed to find the correct service. It was only by some miracle that he had not ended up in Edinburgh or Cardiff.

The only thing that had sustained him on his journey was the presence of the Air France ticket in his pocket; it was like his lucky talisman, the only speck of light in the darkness. Gregory was through with England, through with being the plaything of the Holmes brothers; Paris was a new start, a city of opportunities that he would grab with both hands.

It wasn’t until he walked up the drive to the mansion that he realised it was only nine o’clock. It was still light, and through the open curtains of the Mews he could see his father reading, waiting for him to arrive home. Gregory knew he couldn’t face him, not yet.

He took a detour round the house, through the Italian garden and the scene of the party (was that really less than a week ago?). From the direction of the orangery he could hear the sound of Offenbach’s Barcarolle, one of Sherlock’s favourite pieces, being played rather impatiently on the violin and Gregory walked towards it.

******

There was Sherlock in his soft pyjamas and the dressing gown that brought out the blue in his eyes, Gregory was relieved and a little sad to realise that while he could admire the man aesthetically he was completely immune to his charms.

“He shall have music wherever he goes”

Sherlock looked up and gave Gregory the once over. He swiftly deduced ninety five percent of everything that had happen to Gregory since he had left the mansion that morning. If he could just confirm that the stiff white card, the corner of which was peeping out of the inside pocket of Gregory’s jacket, was an airline ticket, then he would have the whole story.

Sherlock catalogued the three types of dirt on Gregory’s clothing, and a faint muddy tyre mark on his trousers (stood close to a bicycle while crossing the Thames embankment?). He estimated that Gregory had walked around London for at least an hour, possibly longer, before entering an establishment which favoured the same brand of beeswax floor polish as Clarence House… he didn’t like the way this was going.

From Gregory himself, Sherlock deduced that he hadn’t eaten all day but wasn’t hungry (the Mars Bar in his pocket testified to that); he noted the eyes, slightly pink, that suggested he’d been close to tears without actually crying though the overwhelming emotion radiating from the young man was anger rather than grief. From Gregory’s slightly swollen lips it was obvious that he had been recently and thoroughly kissed (Sherlock felt a pang of regret) but there was no hint of stubble burn. Sherlock dismissed the notion that Gregory’s lover was a woman so whoever it was had anticipated the encounter. Sherlock moved closer and caught a whiff of _Ambre Topkapi._ Mycroft… that meddling git!

“I thought we were going to talk. I had planned a celebration in honour of getting out of bed. The champagne’s on ice and I thought we’d…”

“I was with Mycroft.”

Sherlock was instantly serious. “I know”

“I'm leaving England, Sherlock”

“I know”

“I won a ticket to Paris”

“So I deduced… One way?”

“Yes, come to think of it”

“Traveling alone?”

“Yes”

Sherlock sighed and had a sudden longing for John to be there. John would know what to do, what to say to this broken hearted boy. In fact, where was John? Sherlock thought irritably, why wasn’t he at his side where he belonged?

Looking at Gregory, standing tall and putting a brave face on things Sherlock updated Mycroft’s status from git to bastard, and was then struck with an idea.

“Gregory”

“What?

“Go and see Mrs Hudson, tell her everything”

“Why?”

“Just do it, go and talk to Martha”

******

Gregory had no desire to do anything either of the Holmes brothers suggested ever again but once Sherlock had put the idea into his head he found that he did want to see Mrs Hudson. He still wasn’t in the right place emotionally to go home, his father was already concerned about him and he didn’t want to worry him further, not until he had to. Gregory had a sudden longing to see a friendly face, someone who would listen without judging and Mrs Hudson was both.

And with a bit of luck he might be able to persuade Martha to part with one of her herbal soothers.

******

After Gregory left the orangery Sherlock went to get dressed. He sent three text messages and made a short phone call. He waited until the coast was clear and he could see Gregory making his way back to the Mews before calling on Mrs Hudson himself. The housekeeper, whom Sherlock had long ago deduced had a much more colourful past than she cared to admit to, was expecting him.

Pleased with himself, on leaving Mrs Hudson, Sherlock went back to his rooms to collect a few necessary items before getting in his car to drive into London. His plan would necessitate him working through the night, but that was no hardship, especially as he had spent most of the last four days asleep. (Something, that in the light of most recent events, Sherlock now viewed with a great deal of suspicion).

*****

Anthea had been Mycroft Holmes’ assistant for nearly a decade; she knew he was a workaholic with next to no life apart from his job and was used to arriving at the office to find that he had been there for some hours already. But she didn’t need her boss’s deductive powers to know that this morning was different. She would put a year’s salary on the fact that Mycroft had been sat at his desk all night chain drinking coffee and, if the content of his waste paper bin was any indication, attempting to put something in writing. While he had at some point changed his shirt and made a reasonable attempt of shaving and tidying himself up, Mycroft’s tie was askew and his suit… well Anthea couldn’t say it looked as if it had been slept in as that would imply that Mycroft had slept, which he clearly hadn’t. Anthea had never seen Mycroft so untogether.

“Anthea, good, you’re here… I want you to call Porlock, Love and the Watsons, and tell them... there's an emergency meeting on the technology contract here at noon. It would be helpful if you could get my mother to come in as well.

“Also, take this Paris ticket that’s in my name and transfer it to the name of William Sherlock Scott Holmes… That will be all for now”

As Anthea turned to leave she heard brisk footsteps in the corridor behind her, along with a familiar voice shouting “Mycroft” followed by the agitated shushing of the Club’s concierge.

Anthea dismissed the doorman with a look that said “leave this to me”.

“Good morning, Sherlock”

Anthea momentarily wondered what the younger Holmes looked like when he wasn’t storming around with his coat tails flying giving every indication that he was about to thump his brother. Having observed the siblings interactions for years she suspected she was unlikely to ever find out. She attempted to pour hot liquids on troubled waters. “Can I get you some coffee?

As neither man answered, Anthea took that as her cue to leave. After Anthea closed the door behind her, Mycroft stood up and appeared genuinely pleased to see his brother.

“I got a surprise for you”

“Yes? I got one for you too”

Sherlock, although expert in Baritsu and more than competent in any number of methods of self-defence, settled for the simple tactic of planting a right hook on Mycroft’s jaw. Mycroft reeled backwards and when he stood upright again he was bleeding from the mouth. Sherlock found this enormously satisfying but it did nothing to abate his anger.

“I've watched how you operate for years... but I thought there was a limit to how much you could appal me… How could you, Mycroft? How could you do what you did to me and to him? How could you go that far?”

Sherlock was on a roll. “What the hell makes you think you have the right?”

Mycroft’ reply was instantaneous and curt “Habit”

But he couldn’t sustain his defiance; he needed his brother’s help.

“Listen, Sherlock. I tried something, and it didn't work. I mean, it worked, but it didn't really work. I want you to go to Paris today... with Gregory”

“What?”

Mycroft started to pace around the office, he needed to make Sherlock understand.

“This was a political manoeuvre. But it escalated out of my control… I underestimated the consequences. I made a grave error of judgement... but I know how it can be resolved... I manipulated Gregory... I confused him... but he's loved you all his life.

“You're what he really wants. You're what he's always wanted. Go with him” Mycroft was moments away from pleading “It's not too late… Things will work out…. He'll make you happy”

“I don't want him to have to leave here alone” And there it was.

Sherlock, who was never at his best where emotions, or his brother, were involved, was totally out of his depth. He had no idea what to do with a confession unless it belonged to a member of the criminal fraternity. He did however grasp the inconceivable fact that Mycroft was telling him to leave John, which prompted a question.

“What about Watson Electronics and the nation’s security?”

Mycroft didn’t answer and Sherlock used the ensuing silence to deduce everything he needed to know from his brother’s empty coffee cup and the creases in his trousers.

“Seriously? You'd commit treason for this?”

Mycroft still said nothing, his silence as eloquent as a thousand words.

“I see”

Mycroft had had enough of Sherlock stalling, this was his crisis and he’d manage it his way, at least while he was still in charge.

“Go on... Get going” It would be just like his brother to cock this up. “Don't miss the plane”

Leaving his brother to stew in his own juices, Sherlock walked out of the room, to where an intrigued Anthea was at her desk trying to look busy.

“Anthea, Is there somewhere private we can talk?”

“The strangers’ room, it will be quiet at this time of day. Follow me”

******

After Anthea had left with her instructions Sherlock had one last phone call to make.

“It’s me… Look I know you’re on a tight schedule this morning but I need to tell you a story. And I need for you to tell me... how it ends”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not sure if this story is getting longer or the chapters are getting shorter.


	15. Chapter 15

Tom Lestrade was struggling to keep on top of events. From what he could gather his son, who had regularly over the past six or seven years had his heart broken by Sherlock Holmes had now managed to have his heart broken by Mycroft. As a result of this heartbreak, Gregory now intended to relocate permanently to Paris, a venture funded in part by Martha Hudson, his friend and the Holmes’ housekeeper, who as it happened, was not the trusted colleague with a long history of domestic service as he had supposed her to be, but a woman with a very interesting past indeed which included a husband who had been executed for murder... in Florida of all places. He was reeling.

He had hoped to have a serious talk with Gregory on the drive to the airport but unfortunately at the last minute he had been summoned to take Mrs Holmes into the city. Tom was disappointed that Gregory did not seem concerned that his father wouldn’t be there to wave him off, though as he had remarkably little luggage for someone who was leaving home for ever, Tom supposed that he would be able to manage on the bus.

He was still perturbed by the revelations about Mrs Hudson, and had to tell her so as they watched the taxi drive off.

“All those years, when we used to wonder where we would all live when we retired and you were sitting on a property in central London...”

“I'll tell you now, Thomas, Marry me… Marry me for my money. People do it every day”

“I'm not amused Martha... and I have a great sense of humour”

“Then marry me for love”

******

Mycroft had pulled himself together in the intervening hours since he had dispatched Sherlock to Paris with Gregory. He had made use of the steam room and sauna while the club’s valet had cleaned and pressed his suit. With his armour restored he felt as prepared as he would ever be to face the consequences ahead.

He was aware that Lady Smallwood and Sir Edwin were already in the ante room, and he had heard Patrick (and presumably Ingrid) Watson arrive but he wanted to wait for Maude before he started the meeting. Not to suggest that he needed his mother to fight his battles, but the meeting concerned family as well as national security and woe betide him should Mummy hear of Sherlock’s departure from anyone else.

From behind the closed door he heard Patrick demanding “Emergency what? What's the emergency?” Followed by the placatory tones of his mother as she answered him “Darling, if I knew. I'm sure there's a perfectly good answer to that question” while all along Ingrid Watson wittered on about her dress as everyone filed into Mycroft’s office.

Patrick Watson was soon off again. “What the hell is going on?”

“In a minute, Patrick”

Patrick Watson was not inclined to patience, he was seriously rattled. He’d invested a lot of time and resources into this contract with the British Government, and he had a wedding to pay for. “What are we waiting for?”

Referring to Lady Smallwood and Sir Edwin, whom had never met but taken an instant dislike to he asked nastily “And what's with Fred and Ginger?”

Anthea brought up the rear and closed the door behind her, exchanging a knowing look with Mrs Holmes as she did so.

“Just a minute” Mycroft stood up and began to address the assembled parties, unconsciously pacing as he did so, a physical manifestation of the stress he was under. “Patrick, we've known each other for a long time. We may not have always seen eye to eye but... I think we have a healthy respect for... our individual abilities. When I approached you for exclusive rights to the prototypes you had in development, you saw the advantages such an association would have for you at this stage in your career and without question ... it would have been of great benefit, both individually and nationally”

“Would have been?”

“I realise you would have never have considered the possibility of so closely aligning yourself with one sovereign power to the exclusion of all others, if it had not been for the proposed merger between members of our two families. It may be that having made that decision you will choose to honour it but in the interest of full disclosure I have in all fairness to inform you that my brother Sherlock…”

At that moment the door swung open and with impeccable timing Sherlock entered hand in hand with his fiancé. Mummy suspected he’d been hanging around on the stairs for the optimal moment.

“Is late, as usual. Sorry”

John let go of Sherlock’s hand and went to sit on the couch, next to his mother. Sherlock however had control of the room. “Sorry, everybody”

Mycroft was stunned “What are you doing here?”

Sherlock announced with his usual panache and to the collective gasps of everyone in the room. “John and I have decided to elope”

Mycroft had no time for his brother’s posturing. “Sherlock, where's Gregory?”

“Who's Gregory?” Sir Edwin was heard to mutter to Lady Smallwood.

“You didn't go with him?” Mycroft was addressing his brother.

“Obviously not. Here I am, right? He's probably having his complimentary glass of champagne right about now”

“Who is?” Ingrid Watson was also struggling to keep up.

“Gregory?” Lady Smallwood guessed.

“Who's Gregory?” Ingrid asked again.

“The chauffeur's son” Patrick was doing better.

“Don't call him that” Mycroft snapped.

John took it upon himself to explain the circumstances to his parents, and anyone else who would listen. “He was after Sherlock for a while. Then, apparently, he switched to Mycroft. He seems to have decided that he was the one with the power”

“Is that what Sherlock told you?” Mycroft was close to shouting.

John was enjoying this enormously “He told me everything, Mycroft”

Mycroft turned to his brother “You didn't see him before he left... You didn't talk to him?”

Sherlock loved a good dramatic role and had rehearsed his lines with John in the taxi on the way over.

“Of course... I said good-bye. I think I wished him luck” Sherlock went for a baffled expression “Maybe not…I told him I felt funny accepting my brother's hand-me-downs... and I said don't take it personally... and that you've always been very generous to your lovers in the past. I was sure he'd be more than compensated for whatever…”

Sherlock’s speech was cut off when Mycroft‘s uppercut landed squarely on his chin.

Far from being outraged Sherlock seemed delighted, springing up and yelling “Just as I deduced, he loves him!”

“Who?”

“Gregory” Patrick Watson decided to join in, like his son, he was also beginning to find the whole episode highly entertaining.

Sherlock turned to Anthea “Is he packed?” Anthea nodded in confirmation.

Mycroft was distracted for a moment “Is who packed?”

“You are. Just one bag”

“Wait. You packed my clothes? You went to my rooms!”

Mummy answered “I packed for you Mycroft; your smalls are safe from prying eyes”

Sherlock had had enough of inconsequential talking; he needed to get things moving.

“Sign this. It's your authorisation for the completion of the contract with Patrick Watson. This… authorising your deputy to act in your absence. And this, increasing my allowance for the new position I am about to assume. There's a car waiting for you downstairs… The ticket's been changed to the Eurostar. You have twenty nine minutes until check in closes. If you go now you just might just get to Paris before he does”

Mycroft speechless, stunned, confused, looked round at the people in the room as if they were strangers, speaking a language that even he didn’t know, like Cornish, or Klingon.

Captain Watson took control and barked an order. “Go, Mycroft. Don't think” 

Mycroft still hesitated, everything was moving so quickly “He… he must absolutely hate me”

Mummy was not a natural when it came to comforting her children. “He'll get over it. We all do”

“This is crazy… You expect me to just drop everything and walk out of here?”

“Running would be better”

Sir Edwin whispered to Lady Smallwood “I fear Antarctica has finally melted”

Mummy tried to have the last word “Mycroft, you know I love you. No mother could be prouder. But I think it's time that you ran away from home”

Except Sherlock would outlive God having the last word so added “But sign these first”

But in the end it fell to Mycroft, having for the first time in his life appended his signature to something he hadn’t read, to end the discussion. “If you'll excuse me... it appears I have a previous engagement”

******

After Mycroft had left, running, as instructed, Sherlock took the floor again.

“Now, obviously the contents of this deal are strictly top secret and the goal will be to keep things that way for as long as possible however the news will break and then there will inevitably be a backlash from both the Russian and the Chinese quarters, at the very least, not to mention hurt feelings on the part of our American cousins. I have put together a few ideas on how we might keep them distracted from our real intentions in the interim…”

Sherlock quickly handed out several photocopied sheets of paper.

Lady Smallwood expressed her disbelief “Sherlock Holmes when did you ever…”

“Just because I had no wish to join The Service… doesn’t mean that I wasn't capable”

“Are you…are you assuming Mycroft’s position?” Lady Smallwood sounded rattled, while Sir Edwin looked alarmed.

Sherlock gave them all his _I am surrounded by idiots_ look.

“Then why?” Mummy had to ask “the increased allowance?”

“I’m setting up as a consulting detective and John’s leaving the hospital to be my assistant. It will tide us over until the consulting starts to pay off”

“So who has Mycroft put in charge?”

“Anthea of course…Come along John”

And with a swirl of his coat, Sherlock was gone, with John trotting behind him.

******

Mycroft was sensible enough feel embarrassment at being driven by Tom Lestrade as he chased after his son.

“Go ahead” Mycroft thought he might as well get it out in the open “Say it”

“You don't deserve him”

“I don't. I know that. But I need him, and I don't need anything”

The clock was ticking, on top of the usual London traffic there had been an accident on the Euston Road. Tom had a taxi driver’s knowledge but that couldn’t make the road reopen. St Pancras was in sight but the car couldn’t get there.

“Time to run for it” Lestrade advised.

“I just want to make him happy”

Enough, Lestrade thought “13 Rue des Beaux Arts”

******

Mycroft reached passport control just as the gate was closing, sick with fear and breathless from running, he had to loosen his tie before he fainted. The check in operator was concerned.

“First time on the Eurostar, Mr Holmes?”

“Yes”

“But not your first time in Paris?”

“It's my first everything”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> since the tunnel opened it is often quicker to go to Paris by train which terminates in the centre than to fly to Charles de Gaulle airport and travel in - that's the idea anyway.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An Englishman abroad

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So having followed the plot of the film quite faithfully so far - this happened  
> apologies if it disappoints but I have my reasons

Mycroft arrived in Paris in the late afternoon and took a taxi directly to the Rue des Beaux-Arts in the Saint Germain des Pres district of Paris. It was rush hour and the drive took longer than Mycroft had would have liked despite waving a fistful of euros at the driver.

Mycroft had anticipated his destination would be a modest apartment block in one of the residential suburbs, the home of some or other relative of the Lestrades, instead the cab drew up outside a small but smart looking hotel. He spotted the plaque on the wall, no wonder he had thought the address was familiar, it was the same hotel where the wretched Oscar Wilde had died, having been ruined by his relationship with a heartless, younger lover. Mycroft hoped that wasn’t prophetic.

The hotel wasn’t cheap, prices inflated by the number of famous people who had resided there in the past, in turn drawn in by its association with dear Oscar. Mycroft wondered how Gregory was going to afford it, but then supposed Lestrade senior might have a few pounds he could advance his son in an emergency. Mycroft felt uncomfortable all the same.

Feeling exposed loitering on the pavement outside the hotel, Mycroft crossed to the Bistro on the opposite side and took a seat in the window where he could watch the passing traffic and monitor activity on both sides of the street. He checked his phone, although Gregory’s plane had arrived in Paris earlier than Mycroft’s train, the airport was further away than the Eurostar terminal, and as Gregory had refused Mycroft’s offer of a payoff (how callous that suggestion seemed now) he would be most likely to travel to the Sixth Arrondissement by bus and the Metro, a journey which could well take him over an hour. Assuming he had passed through arrivals without any difficulty, Mycroft expected Gregory to be there in the next few minutes.

A waiter appeared and Mycroft ordered a coffee, unlikely there would be time to drink it but allowed him to remain in his chosen position. The street was busy; it was a popular area of the Left Bank, tourists and artists, taxis and cars passed up and down in front of him. That blasted Oscar Wilde Hotel, why were so many people stopping to have their photographs taken and obscuring his view?

******

Three coffees later, Mycroft was distinctly agitated, and it wasn’t just overdoing the caffeine, he knew he should never have trusted Sherlock, something must have been out in his calculations; perhaps Gregory had splashed out on a taxi after all. In which case, Mycroft conceded, Gregory might have arrived before him.

Mycroft settled his bill and hurried over to the hotel. Approaching the receptionist he enquired if a note could be sent to Monsieur Lestrade’s room.

“Pardon Monsieur, but there is no guest at the hotel of that name”

“Then I’ll wait” Mycroft went to move away from the desk, the hotel was rather too _la belle époque_ for his liking but he’d spotted a couple of chairs that were tucked away in corner with a view of the lobby, they would do.

The receptionist looked concerned and consulted with her colleague, before calling Mycroft back. “Pardon Monsieur, if I did not make myself clear, but there are no reservations at the Hotel in that name”

Several ideas ran through Mycroft’s mind at the receptionist’s words, but he just as quickly dismissed them. There was no reason to think Gregory would have booked a room under a false name, to do that would have required forethought and the belief he would be followed. He would also have required false ID and bank cards, and while Mycroft had access to these, Gregory did not. Though here Mycroft’s certainty waivered, while Gregory might not have access to such things he might know someone who did… but no, there hadn’t been time.

Mycroft also rejected the idea that Tom Lestrade had deliberately misled him by giving the first address that had popped into his head. His chauffeur had the highest security clearance and had given over eighteen years of exemplary service, if he was anything other than completely honest and trustworthy, Mycroft would have deduced it long ago and got rid of him. Tom Lestrade had believed he was giving the correct address, so either he had made a genuine mistake or Gregory had not been entirely truthful with his father.

Either way, Mycroft had to concede, Gregory had given him the slip.

******

Encouraged by his family and colleagues, Sherlock’s proposal that Mycroft should follow Gregory to Paris and in fact overtake him, had seemed so compelling that he had been swept along in the current and hardly stopped to think. He would find Gregory, declare himself, sweep his beloved off his feet and into bed and live happily ever after.

Now, alone in the lobby of a strange hotel, with Gregory absent and unobtainable, it occurred to Mycroft that he had been naïve, not something that he had ever been accused of before. Exhaustion overcame him, he’d had scarcely slept in the last three days and consumed nothing except coffee since the poutine and pancakes nearly forty-eight hours ago. Mycroft was a man of regular habits; he did not thrive on nicotine and adrenaline, unlike his younger brother.

Although it was hardly an establishment that Mycroft would usually patronise he enquired if there was a room. The receptionist was quick to respond. Monsieur was in luck, there was a lovely quiet room available away from the main street. Mycroft produced his credit card and checked in.

The room was lovely… and quiet… Mycroft kicked off his shoes, opened his laptop and put his phone on charge. He’d take a shower, change then go down in search of something to eat. Already a plan was formulating in his mind, he’d just close his eyes to help him to concentrate on the details…

******

Mycroft woke with a start, he had no idea how long he had been asleep; the room was in darkness, but he was awake enough to remember he was in a hotel in Paris. He cursed himself for sleeping when he should have been searching. Mycroft fumbled for the lamp switch and squeezed his eyes shut to the intrusive light. When he could see, he glanced at his watch, the hands said quarter to four but he couldn’t remember if he had set it right on arriving in France. He found his phone, which had updated automatically. Four forty-seven. Good. People would be stirring soon, time for a quick shower and change of clothes. He may have lost ground by sleeping last night but he felt better for the rest.

Once he had washed and dressed, and made himself a coffee and fortified by a mineral water and chocolate from the mini bar Mycroft set to work. Firing up his laptop, he logged into the passenger list of the 13.30 Air France flight and confirmed that Gregory had indeed been on board; there he was, seat C3 to accommodate his long legs. Momentarily distracted Mycroft thought about those legs before returning to the job in hand. He reviewed the contacts available to him in France, pitifully few, and the agents based at various locations in Europe that could be brought in to assist as necessary. Feeling more like himself, and seeing signs of progress Mycroft picked up his phone – time to wake up his opposite number at the Ministry of the Interior.

Henri Raphael was not particularly helpful; he was most unhappy to be woken before six by the British government demanding assistance in finding a missing person, a person who might not be missing at all. In the end he agreed to inform the chief of police to give Mycroft all the help and information he required just to get rid of the man.

“I presume you have tried his cell?” Raphael added as an afterthought.

Mycroft realised he must be seriously off his game, it had never occurred to him. Bidding adieu to the minister, he quickly tapped in the number only to have his hopes dashed as a disembodied voice told him ‘the number you have called has not been recognised’.

Something was very wrong.

******

There followed three miserable days where Mycroft was forced to undertake ‘legwork’ as he trawled through the records of every hotel, pension and backpackers for a trace of Gregory. Lestrade’s parents were dead but Gregory’s maternal grandmother and aunt still lived in a quiet residential street in Convention and an agent was dispatched to make discrete enquiries as to whether either of them had visitors. The answer was in the negative. It was like looking for a needle in a haystack.

Or rather as the Commissaire Mycroft was working with said “chercher une aiguille dans une botte de foin… Are you sure Monsieur Holmes that your young friend is in even France?”

The Commissaire and Mycroft took a trip out to the offices of Air France to meet the head of security.

She confirmed that the Air France flight 1581 had landed at Charles de Gaulle airport at 16.05, with passenger Gregory Lestrade, travelling on a British passport (which Mycroft was a little surprised at) on board. Monsieur Lestrade had cleared customs by half past four and taken a bus into the city, presumably on his way to the Rue des Beaux Arts.

“You are certain of this?”

“Oui Monsieur, the business class flight attendant on the trip remembered Monsieur Lestrade, a très drôle young man he made a little free with the complimentary champagne and made a suggestion inapproprié regarding what you would call the ‘mile-high club’”

Mycroft felt a pang of disappointment.

“However the employee said she thought it une petite blague, she did not think he was being offensive”

“She?” Mycroft was confused.

“Yes the attendant was Mademoiselle Antoinette Poste, she has been with Air France for seven years and is a highly experienced employee”

“There’s CCTV?”

“Yes of course, I will show you”

They moved to a viewing screen where the relevant tape is already in place.

“Voilà! There were only eleven passengers in the Business Class on that flight, and they disembarked ahead of the economy class, you can see them quite clearly here”

Mycroft did not think the view of the top of someone’s head merited being classed as ‘quite clear’ but he bit back the comment, the recording went on.

“Your friend had a carry-on bag only so he departed the airport very quickly. Here he is at passport control”

This time the CCTV, while in monochrome, was clear. It showed a tall slim man, with darkish hair, in jeans and a leather jacket with a black holdall and a camera case, passing through security and making his way to the exit. Could it be Gregory? Mycroft wasn’t sure from the back of the man’s head but just as he reached the doors, the man had turned and the camera had caught his profile.

Mycroft recognised him at once; despite the last time he had seen the man he’d been cooking meth in Sherlock’s kitchen. “Wiggins!”

So that was the game they had played on him! Mycroft turned to the head of security, bowed slightly and said “My apologies, I appear to have wasted your time, this is not the man we are looking for”

The Commissaire drove Mycroft back to his hotel. Completely humiliated he could hardly speak. He had no idea if Gregory was in Paris, he could have travelled at any time or by any means over the last three days, he told himself he no longer cared. Mycroft packed his things haphazardly and checked out of his room, the sooner he was back in England, in his familiar territory, the better.

It was as he had always said to Sherlock – sentiment was a chemical defect found in the losing side; well he wouldn’t make that mistake again.

Though as he settled in his seat on the Eurostar and tried to relax he couldn’t help thinking of a pair of brown eyes and the inside of Notre Dame.

******

Tom Lestrade was relieved when a postcard of the Arc de Triomphe landed on his doormat a few days after Gregory’s departure. Gregory wrote he was well, settling in but explained he had to change his phone and will email the new number ASAP.

Someone more observant than the newly engaged chauffeur, a Holmes for example, might have noticed that the postcard was slightly faded along the top edge and that there were four small oily marks in the corners as if it had been stuck to a wall or a notice board with blutak or in actual fact, spent the last four years affixed to Gregory’s wardrobe door.


	17. Chapter 17

When Gregory had knocked on Mrs Hudson’s door the evening he had been so absolutely and thoroughly rejected by Mycroft Holmes, the best he had hoped for was a shoulder to cry on.

Martha had sat and listened patiently as he relayed the events of the past four days, it was just as she and Tom had feared, their Gregory had been treated shamefully by that cold, unfeeling reptile. She was in complete agreement with Sherlock; Mycroft Holmes had been getting his own way far too easily for far too long. It was time for him to be taught a lesson.

Gregory reached the part of his story concerning the tickets to Paris, and his intention to move.

Mrs Hudson protested “Surely you don’t have to make that decision immediately?”

“I can’t stay here, Martha, not after this. At least I know Paris; I’d even been thinking I might move there”

In Mrs Hudson’s opinion there was a considerable difference between jumping and being pushed, and she said so in no uncertain terms.

Gregory pitifully agreed “But what else can I do? Where else can I go?”

Mrs Hudson had an answer. In a few short sentences she gave Gregory a brief résumé of her life to date. Gregory was sufficiently diverted to temporarily forget his own misery. When it came to Frank Hudson’s activities in Florida he realised that he didn’t know the housekeeper at all.

Gregory was sensible enough to recognise Martha’s plan was a good one. So the next day he had taken the train not to the airport but to London Bridge station. There he had been met by a friend of Sherlock’s who had relieved him of his airline ticket and a hastily written old postcard in exchange for six hundred pounds and the spare key to 221A Baker Street. Gregory did feel guilty at deceiving his father but if he didn’t know the truth he wouldn’t have to lie about it.

He had been a little concerned to discover he was living so close to a Holmes but it was soon apparent that hostilities between Sherlock and his brother had resumed so there was no danger of bumping into Mycroft. Mrs Hudson’s flat was comfortable and convenient; Gregory went out with his camera every day, not just to the popular attractions (although he had done the London Eye and the Houses of Parliament) but into the secret places and residential areas that no-one ever bothered with.

He visited the Crime Museum at New Scotland Yard. While there, fascinated by the exhibits he realised with a start that he hadn’t thought about Mycroft for almost an hour, and then couldn’t think about anything else. He reflected sadly that it had taken him seven years to get over Sherlock; at this rate he might be ready for another relationship by the time he was twenty-eight. But that was okay by him, he was through with men. More importantly he had had space to make up his mind. He loved London, it was where he belonged and he would serve his city by joining its police force.

******

Mycroft took the first Eurostar train out of Paris; it was crowded and even first class was full, he zoned out the noise as best he could and faced facts. He had allowed himself to become emotionally compromised and needed to take steps to restore his equilibrium. He couldn’t stand the thought of receiving pitying looks from the other members at the Diogenes Club and home was simply out of the question. He checked his phone, and on arriving at St Pancras took a taxi to Euston and was just in time to board the Caledonian Sleeper. He would retire to the Island and lick his wounds.

As soon as he arrived, late the following afternoon, Mycroft knew he had made a mistake, every room, every view, even the fruit on the table, reminded him of Gregory. He stuck it out for a couple of days but in the end acknowledged defeat; there was nothing for it but to go back to work, and hope that the familiar places and routines would sort him out.

Two days later Anthea walked into her office and found Mycroft sat at the desk, one look at his face told her everything. Wordlessly she gave him back his keys.

“You have the Syrian charge d'affaires at ten and a lunch meeting with the inner sanctum at noon”

“Thank you, if you could advise Love and Porlock of the resumption in my duties”

“Certainly Sir, will there be anything else?”

“Not for the moment, I’ll be up to speed shortly”

Anthea left the office and return to her old desk, where she tried to phone Sherlock, but there was no answer. Something had gone terribly wrong with his scheme and she regretted her part in it, (obtaining a passport for the decoy Gregory); there must be something she could do to put things right.

Mycroft’s next task was to phone his mother, but Mummy, when he finally tracked her down was preoccupied with a catastrophe of her own. Lestrade and Mrs Hudson had given notice.

******

Sherlock calculated that it would take Mycroft no more than twenty-four hours to establish that Gregory was not in Paris. He fully expected his brother to come round to Baker Street, all guns blazing as soon as he returned, having deduced Sherlock’s involvement in the joke. Sherlock had taken preventative measures to avoid being thumped again and planned to make Mycroft sweat a little before revealing the whereabouts of his beloved.

Unfortunately he failed to allow for the effects of emotion on his brother’s deductive abilities, nor had he anticipated that Mycroft would not return home directly. To complicate matters further, a case, easily an eight, sent Sherlock haring off to Portsmouth in pursuit of a mysteriously missing yacht. Sherlock wasn’t overly concerned. Relationship counselling was hardly his area; John was much better equipped to deal with a Mycroft in Love and much less likely to get bopped on the nose for his trouble.

It wasn’t until weeks later that it occurred to Sherlock that, caught up in the thrill of the chase, he had omitted to inform John that he was required to play cupid.

******

Now that he was no longer in love with Sherlock Gregory was more readily able to appreciate Dr Watson’s finer qualities. He was loyal, compassionate and brave; he cut through Sherlock’s posturing and didn’t stand for any nonsense. He could see why Sherlock was enthralled. From John Gregory learned that it was possible to love someone unequivocally while at times wanting to beat them over the head with a shovel, something that might have come in useful had he embarked on a relationship with Mycroft.

John’s kind nature extended to the young man temporally housed in the downstairs flat. He often checked on him, occasionally bringing cake or takeaway and on one memorable occasion had sought refuge from some unexplained incident in 221B by dragging Gregory out to the pub.

He encouraged Gregory in his application to join the Metropolitan Police Force, talking him through the aptitude tests, helping him with the medical questionnaire and practicing interview techniques.

He was there when Gregory returned from his interview and listed all the things he should have said but didn’t, and it was John who took the envelope from the younger man’s shaking hands so he could read the letter advising him that his application to the Met had been successful.

******

Sherlock and John did not elope, although at their insistence the nuptials were both brought forward and scaled down. Out of the two families only Ingrid Watson was disappointed, though with the date set for the second Saturday in September there was plenty to keep her occupied, and she still got to wear her dress.

After the brief thaw, the debacle with Gregory had returned relations between the brothers to their usual frosty state. They never spoke about it; as far as Mycroft was concerned Sherlock had deliberately set out to humiliate him, whereas Sherlock, although blissfully happy with John, still resented his brother for manipulating his domestic life to expedite a government contract. He knew that Mycroft was unhappy but supposed that he had been unable to persuade Gregory to reconcile. He had no idea that Mycroft had not spoken to Gregory since his return from Paris.

Mummy insisted that Sherlock ask Mycroft be his best man. Sherlock protested but Mummy was a force to be reckoned with, and Sherlock was outvoted when his own fiancé sided with her.

“If I have to have Harry stand up with me, you definitely have to have Mycroft”

******

The ceremony was relatively simple, the wedding party consisting of Sherlock, John, and the immediate family. Everyone agreed that the bridegrooms looked handsome, that Ingrid Watson’s dress was fabulous but that Maude Holmes’ hat had won on points.

The reception took place at the mansion, after all no one knew how to throw a party like the Holmes. Patrick Watson gave a speech that tried to be funny and he very nearly pulled it off, and even Mycroft, who had been persuaded into morning dress and a temporary truce with his younger sibling managed to say a few kind words. It was left to Harry Watson, already on her way to being quite drunk, to regale everyone with stories of the young John, and make them laugh.

Sherlock and John had invited Gregory to their wedding but he had declined. Although he was well and truly over Sherlock, his heart was in that fragile state where any display of another couple’s happiness was incredibly painful. However he did want to see his father before he started training and the second weekend in September was somehow the most convenient. Lestrade and Mrs Hudson had agreed to stay in service until after Sherlock’s wedding, but they were already packing and Gregory needed to sort out his room.

Gregory spent the day going through the remnants of his childhood, clothes and school books and obsolete computer games. Around seven he convinced himself it was the need for fresh air that drew him outside into the warm September evening. The reception was still going on, the speeches had finished and the dancing had begun, Gregory’s tree enticed him upwards, it seemed appropriate that his last look at a Holmes’ party would be Sherlock’s wedding.

From his vantage point, Gregory scanned the guests, telling himself that he was not looking for anyone in particular; he spotted Mrs Holmes, hat abandoned, holding court with some of her friends from the parish council and there was Ingrid Watson, apparently laying down the law to a petite blonde woman who was rather worse for wear (the infamous Harry no doubt) but there was no sign of Mycroft, he’d probably already left. The newlyweds were on the dance floor, both in their shirt sleeves and Sherlock minus his tie; they were dancing so intimately they were a hair’s breadth from needing a room.

This made him think of the Orangery, redundant now that its most frequent occupant was a married man, Gregory turned slightly in the tree so that he could look over at the building, and saw Mycroft walking towards it. Mycroft, tall and handsome in his grey frock coat, face stony, even at a distance Gregory could see that he looked pale and had lost weight.

“I thought I might find you here” His father called from below before adding as usual “You've spent more of your life up that tree than you have on solid ground”

“He doesn’t look well”

Tom Lestrade knew immediately who his son meant.

“If you’re going to waste the best years of your life mooning over Mycroft Holmes I wonder you didn’t think of that when you were in Paris, instead of giving him the brush off”

Gregory jumped down from the tree “What do you mean?”

Tom Lestrade had studiously avoided the subject of Mycroft’s Parisian adventure and Gregory’s part in it; his son was an adult, old enough to make his own mistakes.

“Didn’t he catch up with you in Paris? You both came back separately and you never mentioned it, I assumed, well we all did, that you’d thought better of getting involved… no one would have blamed you”

“I never went to Paris”

“What?”

“I never went to Paris, but you’re telling me Mycroft did?”

“I drove him to St Pancras myself, gave him your address. But what do you mean you didn’t go to Paris?”

“I’ll explain later, there’s something I need to do first”

Gregory ran to the Italian Garden and the scene of the reception, skirting the dance floor and pausing only to speak to the wedding singer, he grabbed a bottle and two glasses from the champagne bar and made his way to the Orangery.

He stopped outside and peered through the window, his instincts were correct; Mycroft was alone, standing by the fountain, staring into space while the water trickled through his hand. When he heard the door he turned round, briefly aghast at seeing who was there before his face resumed his impassive expression.

As Gregory came towards him Mycroft looked for an escape route before dismissing the thought as cowardly, might as well get it over with.

Gregory spoke first. “You went to Paris”

“That’s ancient history”

“I only just found out” Gregory opened the champagne and poured two glasses, moving close enough to Mycroft to hand it to him, he took it automatically. “I thought it was all a lie”

They were so close now Mycroft could feel the heat radiating from Gregory’s body; it reminded him of the afternoon at the Diogenes Club and gave him hope.

“So did I. But something happened. It was a lie... and then it was a dream”

“I want to believe you but I don’t know how I can”

Mycroft took a gamble, the most important one of his life.

“Because you know me... better than anyone else. I think you know I love you... and you promised... if there was anything you could ever do…”

At that moment the orchestra stuck up the Cole Porter and Gregory held out his arms for Mycroft to walk into them.

“Dance with me, Mycroft, dance with me because you want to not because you have to”

_“You do something to me_

_Something that simply mystifies me_

_Tell me, why should it be_

_You have the power to hypnotize me”_

_“Let me live 'neath your spell_

_Do do that voodoo that you do so well”_

And there, in the Orangery where it all began, Mycroft and Gregory danced.

_"For you do something to me_

_That nobody else could do”._


	18. Epilogue

They honeymooned in Paris, naturally.

Gregory used the occasion of Mycroft’s thirty-ninth birthday to lure his petit ami to _The Gravy Train_ for a traditional Canadian feast of poutine and pancakes. The restaurant had gone through several incarnations in the past few years though it was still essentially the same place where (as Gregory thought nostalgically) they had had their ‘first date’.

Gregory had been dismayed when he realised that after seven years together Mycroft’s reticence to formalise their relationship came not from a position of complacency but from a fear of rejection. Gregory chided himself for not doing as good a job as a boyfriend as he could to make his beloved feel secure.

He was also amazed to discover that after all these years he could still surprise the man (and bring him to tears – of happiness thankfully).

Left to their own devices Gregory and Mycroft would have opted for a quiet do at the register’s office followed by a modest wedding breakfast at the Diogenes Club. They had reckoned without the combined forces of Mummy, the former Mrs Hudson and most determined of them all… Mycroft’s niece.

It turned out that John’s parents had only been partly joking about the surrogacy.

Thus on a beautiful afternoon in late Spring, almost eight years after that fateful day in the Orangery, the five year old budding prima donna that was Daisy Watson-Holmes walked before her uncles scattering rose petals and stealing the limelight as they made their way towards the officiant. Trailing only slightly behind her was her younger brother, Patrick junior, brow furrowed in concentration as he gripped the ring cushion with both hands as if his little life depended on it.

*****

They had visited Paris many times over the previous eight years, at various events involving Gregory’s extended family but this was the first real holiday.

They spent the night of their wedding day in London and travelled to Paris on the Eurostar arriving in the early afternoon. Gregory had insisted that they stay at The Hotel where Mycroft had spent a miserable three days searching for his lost love. Gregory had plans to overwrite those memories with more pleasant ones.

There were also the bridges across the Seine to count and discover which one would be their favourite, and the Louvre, the Champs Elysees and Monet’s Garden to visit; for the next few days they were officially tourists. Mycroft was determined that this time he would actually get to see inside Notre Dame.

The receptionist was chatty as they completed their registration.

“Is this your first time to stay at The Hotel, Monsieurs?”

“I have stayed here before” Mycroft's gaze rested on Gregory, before he added with pride “but this is the first time avec mon mari”


End file.
